It was me
by Dex1
Summary: Repost of my first Supernatural story wherein the boys have a !gasp! sister. Completely, obviously, AU, but a worthwile read none the less.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I first wrote this...I don't know, a while ago. And I realize it's not for everyone since so many of you hate even the idea of a Mary Sue, which I certainly hope Tessa does not come off as. That said, it seems as though there is a fairly large audience for what are increasingly being known as "sister stories" within this fandom, so I thought - since I didn't do so the first time around - I'd repost it advertising it as such, just to see if there may be a new audience for it. So hopefully, to those of you do enjoy these types of stories, and characters, you'll find this to be good read. Let me know!

Oh, and, while it's clearly AU regardless, I should mention that it was written, I believe, just after Scarecrow. So just disregard the episodes following that.

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Summary: AU wherein Sam has a twin sister. Mary Sue haters calm down, she'll barely even appear after the first chapter, it's all just part of my maniacal plan to bring you an exciting and mysterious tale of supernatural events.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

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Stanford University, 2004

"So I guess you're busy doing, I don't know…something," he stammers into the phone, "something so important you can't even answer when your brother calls. On your birthday. Which just happens to be his birthday too. Which really means that he shouldn't even have to call you at all. You should be calling him to wish him a happy birthday." He pauses briefly, stops his pacing and exhales heavily into the receiver before letting out a slight laugh. "Anyway, happy birthday. Love ya. Miss ya. Call me." He pushes the button to hang up the phone and stares at it in his hand, waiting as though he expects it to do something, come alive, ring, maybe even talk to him all on its own. Not that it's a rare occurrence around here, but clearly he's fallen into a static state once again, the kind that hits him several times a day out of the blue and leaves him standing, or sitting, trance-like while he internally debates which of the thousands of thoughts in his head he should listen to.

_I can't believe I have class tomorrow. Maybe I shouldn't go out. I should just stay in with Jess. No, she's already getting ready. But I have a paper due in Ethics Monday. And a test on tort reform. I should study. Yeah right. She'll totally look hot though, always does when we go bar hopping. All night I'll just want to be alone with her anyway. And Dave'll get drunk and be an ass. Kyle'll probably embarrass us all somehow too. Or he might only embarrass himself, which could be funny. But so could whatever is on TV tonight. I really should work on that paper._

"We're going," she says as she quickly sweeps through the room, only half dressed. He turns, broken from his reverie and follows her into the bedroom, watches through the open bathroom door as she carefully lines her eyes.

He stands in the doorway with his hands shoved in his pockets and smiles before saying, "we don't have to."

"It's your birthday and we're going to celebrate," she says, never taking her eyes off her reflection. "Sam, you're 22. This'll be the first birthday where you can legally celebrate with alcohol _and _potentially still remember it the next day. She grabs a lipstick and turns to smile at him the memory of last year's birthday fiasco playing out in her head.

It wasn't the best second date she'd ever had, but despite the fact that she spent most of the night trapped under the boy who passed out in her lap after valiantly downing the obligatory 21 shots, it wasn't the worst either. Sam didn't remember anything about the night. All he knew was that when he woke the next morning with a pounding head, a mouth full of cotton and a churning stomach ready to explode, she was still there. And for some inexplicable reason, she's been there ever since. Well maybe that's not fair. Maybe the reason's not so unexplainable after all; maybe it's really very simple.

"I love you birthday boy," she says with a wink before returning to the mirror. "Now leave me alone so I can finish getting ready. You make me nervous, just staring at me like that."

"Yes ma'am," he says, turning to leave. He makes his way out of the bedroom and collapses on the couch, remote in hand poised and ready to go, when there's a knock at the door. Probably Kyle. Overeager to tie one on, he's always early. Sam grumbles as he rolls off the couch and makes his way to the door. "I thought we…" he starts, opening the door, but trails off when finding a young brunette who looks suspiciously like him instead of his goofball friend.

"Boo," the girl says before breaking into a hearty laugh. Sam can't help but join in, his face splitting with joy as he reaches out and wraps his arms around her.

"What are you doing here?" he asks excitedly, still swaddling her. Her hair smells like juniper and it brings back long lost memories of having to share the same bathroom with his two siblings. Her shampoo and conditioner always left their scent lingering long after she exited the shower, finally giving into the annoyed banging of her brothers on the bathroom door.

"Well I got this horribly pathetic, guilt inducing voicemail and I thought…oh wait that was just like two minutes ago." She pulls away but keeps her hands on his shoulders, holding him at a distance as a grandparent might do when investigating how their little boy has grown. "God, have you gotten taller?" she asks, pushing her way past him into his apartment.

He turns and closes the door, leans against it. "Yeah, I'm doing it just to spite you."

"I thought so," she says, wagging her finger at him. They had been the same height up until they turned 12. She hit a growth spurt and ruled as the taller twin for all of about four months before he hit one of his own. Oh she tried to keep up, but never made it past 5' 9. Now Sam towered above the whole family, and she was left always looking up. So much for that twin thing.

"So…"

"This is nice," she says, ignoring him and choosing instead to peruse her new surroundings. Everything was so organized. Thank God he didn't loose that. Sometimes she feared that the more time they spent apart, the more different they would become. But he was still a bit of neat freak, just like her. And his hair, she notices glancing back at him, was still long and unruly, another common characteristic. The difference there though was that, she was fairly well convinced, he only kept it that was because their ex-marine father was always after him to cut it. But still.

"Tessa," he says. "What are you doing here?"

She knows what he's asking and why. They haven't seen each other in about six months, since they met up outside San Diego to trade some extremely belated Christmas gifts. The fact of the matter is that Sam wasn't really part of their family anymore. That may not be nice, it may not be fair, but it was the truth. When he left their father told him not to come back, and he didn't intend to. As far as she knew he and their father hadn't even spoken since then. And it was almost as bad with Dean. Of course he tried to keep in touch, but when you're all over the country working nonstop, calling your little brother isn't always at the top of your to do list. Especially when that little brother for all intents and purposes bailed on his family, even if it was for his own good. Even she, his own twin, could barely manage to make time to call or email, so yeah –w_hat are you doing here?_ – was a legitimate question. But that doesn't mean she has to treat it like one.

"I can go if you want," she says, feigning disappointment. "I mean, if you really don't want me here."

"Shut up." He laughs and hugs her from behind, pinning her arms to her chest so she can't escape. "You're such a loser." The hug quickly turns into a sad attempt at a wrestling match, but Tessa hasn't been able to break free from her brother's holds in a long time. She has a hell of a right cross and could kick him square in the jaw despite his stature, but not if he wouldn't let her go. And he knows that.

"Hey Sam, did I…" Jessica, still without pants, sputters to a stop just before running into the struggling siblings. "Hi," she says awkwardly as Tessa strains to look up at her, her head locked under Sam's arm.

"Hi."

He doesn't release her, just smiles while casually making introductions. "Jess, this is Tess. Tess, Jess." Tessa bites his arm and he quickly lets go, jumping back as she works her way out of his hold.

"Hi," she says again, extending her hand to the wide-eyed blond.

"That hurt," Sam whines, rubbing his arm. "Jerk."

Jessica accepts her hand and shakes, but waits a moment before talking, tries to figure out just what exactly is going on. Of course she knew who this girl was before Sam introduced her. Even tucked underneath him she could see enough of her to recognize from the picture in the other room. Two smiling high school graduates with linked arms and the exact same hair. Granted Tessa's was much longer, trailing down her back, but when Jess walked in and saw the two mops mingled together, she knew that it must be Sam's twin even before catching a glimpse of her face.

"I was beginning to think I was never going to meet you," she says after releasing Tessa's hand, letting her straighten herself up a bit. "Actually, I kind of thought I might never meet any of Sam's family."

"Oh, he likes to keep us hidden away. He says we embarrass him," she offers in a whisper.

"You do, but I don't say that."

"Oh my God," Jessica spits out as she turns quickly and heads for the bedroom. "I'm not dressed." She continues talking from behind the slightly ajar door while rummaging through the closet looking for a decent pair of jeans. Meanwhile Tess shoots her brother a thumbs up, her mouth forming the silent words _she's hot_. "Sam didn't tell me you were coming. Why didn't you tell me she was coming?"

"I didn't know."

"Surprise."

"Well it's great you're here though. I mean, for his birthday and all. Oh wait," she pokes her head out while zipping up her pants on the other side of the door. "It's yours too, duh. Well we're totally gonna have a blast tonight," she says, emerging fully dressed and ready to go.

The first bar they hit is crowded with university students. Even though it's a Thursday night and already dangerously close to finals time, the place is packed with seemingly carefree twentysomethings, all of whom seem content with the knowledge that they are somebody who's going somewhere. Tessa can't help but look at all of them and wonder if that's really true. Just because you're in college doesn't make you anyone special, even if it is Stanford. You still have just as much chance as anyone else of becoming a sad, lonely loser stuck in a dead end job. They were all just deluding themselves, thinking this was all somehow important, that it all meant something.

When Sam first mentioned how badly he wanted to go to college, more importantly go _away_ to college, she jumped right on board. He was always so smart, and more than that he was always wanting to learn. It was perfect for him. She even thought about going herself, until seeing their father's reaction. Sam may be smart, and he may be brave – anyone who can stand up to their father like he does must be – but there was no doubt that he had a selfish streak as well. It didn't really bother her, not as much as Dad and Dean anyway. The way she figured, after all they'd been through growing up the way they did, he deserved to be a little selfish. But she couldn't find it in herself to be the same. So instead she stayed at home, whatever home was, and took part in the _family business_ full time.

"I can't believe you want to be a lawyer," she says, adding on to the conversation that inevitably returned to the topic of school. Already she had to explain to everyone that no, in fact she was not in college and, no, she did not drop out nor did she ever intend to go in the first place. Clearly they simply didn't understand that you could have a fulfilling life without pursuing higher education, you could make a difference without earning an advanced degree. Of course they would never know what kind of difference she might make in the lives of people, or if they did know, certainly they would never believe it.

"Sam loves to argue," someone says in response, though she can't remember who he is. She can keep a thousand facts in her head at once, knows the Ritual Romanum front and back, even the Maleus Malefacarum, but names are not her forte.

"Yeah," she says shifting in her seat, readying herself to go get another beer.

"You need another," she hears and turns to the guy next to her.

"Yeah."

"I'll get it for you," he says and smiles sweetly. Sweetly but also cunningly, scathingly, sexily. Man, she thinks, what is his name? When he returns with her drink she offers him her best seductive smile and he graciously accepts. But then she looks away, refusing any further flirtation. It's a lesson she learned long ago from Dean. Take it only as far as you're willing to go, don't let yourself get distracted. He didn't really teach her that actually, she learned from watching him do the opposite and pay for it later.

"So Tessa, you came all the way out here from Kansas just to wish Sam a happy birthday?" His voice was even more intoxicating than his smile, certainly more so than the beer she'd been drinking for the last hour. Resist. Respond politely but don't look at him. Don't make eye contact.

"I was in Texas, so it wasn't too far."

"What were you doing in Texas?"

"Working."

"Tessa travels a lot." Leave it to Sam to cover quickly.

"What do you do?"

"She does research," he says and pauses, hoping that no more explanation will be needed. The looks on everyone's faces though tell him to go on. "She goes to different places, towns and stuff, and researches the area. Historical. She's kind of like a historian."

He wasn't lying, not really. She did do research, it was sort of her specialty, had been for years. She actually enjoyed combing through news articles and obits looking for anything out of the ordinary. And she was good at it. In fact it was the only thing she was really good at, picking up on strange events. Over the years she managed to commit a ton of what she learned to memory, even managed to learn several languages all on her own. Of course they tended to be ones long since abandoned as a means of communicating, and she never managed to become more than conversational, if one could even say that of a language no one even speaks anymore. But still, it proved to her, even if no one else, that she was smart in her own way, just not the way that teachers see and reward you for. But really, what does that matter? She'd decided long ago that school was rather pointless anyway.

"People pay you for that?"

"No," she says, eager to leave the subject behind. "Are there any clubs or anything around?"

Two clubs, several hours, and far too many drinks later Tessa collapses on the couch in her brother's apartment and quickly passes out. When she wakes it's early, six maybe? Seven? And Sam's sitting on the coffee table in front of her, a smile plastered on his face and a coffee cup in his hand. How he can seem so chipper she has no idea. Clearly he did not drink nearly as much as she thought he had, certainly not as much as she did.

"You're alive," he says, handing her the mug filled with steaming black coffee. She takes a sip carefully before sitting upright. Sugary, it was very, very sugary. He knew her so well.

"What time is it?" she asks, startling herself with the sound of her scratchy voice.

"Almost seven. I have class in a couple of hours. Thought maybe you'd want to get some breakfast and tag along."

"Go to your class?"

"Yeah, why not? There are like 500 people in it, no one'll notice, or care."

"What class is it?"

He smiles and ducks his head, trying to hide it. "Advanced physics."

"Oh yeah, right."

"Just thought I'd offer."

"What are you even doing taking that?"

"I don't know. I needed a science elective." He gets up from the table and moves to the couch, sitting down next to her. "We can still have breakfast if you want though." She doesn't respond, just balances the coffee on her knee with her fingers still laced through the mug's handle, and lays her head on his shoulder. He moves a bit, maneuvers himself so that he can get his arm behind her neck. He plays with her hair and can't help but think about how familiar it feels, not just because it so like his own, but because even if it weren't he'd know it anywhere, has known it his entire life. "You want some aspirin?" he offers. But she shakes her head no.

Sitting together like this he can't help but think about times long since gone. Times when they sat in the back seat of their father's car driving, driving, and driving for what seemed like forever until one or the other of them would fall asleep, head bobbing from side to side and finally coming to rest on the other's shoulder. They spent way too much time stuffed into the back of that car. They'd spent too many nights asleep on each other's shoulders in that car. And they'd had way too many shouting matches and minor fist fights in the back of that car too, the kind that always resulted in Dad pulling over and yelling, forcing one or the other of them to switch places with Dean; poor Dean forced to ride in the back like a child. And he was surprised, Sam was, that he actually kind of missed it. He missed the way the vinyl stuck to his skin in the summer when his dad refused to turn on the air opting for rolling the windows down instead. And he missed Dean getting carsick any time they ate Mexican, which they did whenever it was Tessa's turn to choose. He even missed the sound of his dad's nose whistling like it did whenever he got angry, becoming the only sound in the car once he turned off all the music and made them sit in silence. He must be crazy to miss all that.

"So how is everybody?" The fact that it took him nearly 24 hours to even acknowledge the other members of his family does not escape him, and it's not something he's proud of.

"I don't know. Fine I guess," she says stifling a yawn and settling into his shoulder a bit more.

"Dean's good?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"And Dad, he's good too?" She doesn't answer, just shrugs. "What," he says, pulling back so he can see her face, "you two still going at it?"

It used to be that the only ones who ever really fought in the family, other the odd little sibling rivalry spats between the three kids, were Sam and their father. But when Sam left, Tessa took over as the official pain in his ass. At least that's what he said. She had told Sam all about it, about how they could barely be in the same room anymore, how whenever either one of them saw the other they would just dissolve into bitterness. She never told him why though. She never even told Dean why, not the real reason anyway. They didn't need to know.

"It's fine," she says, not at all convincingly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, right." Sam moves, forcing her to sit up, and the two look in each other's eyes. The same eyes. The same stare. Each of them is used to winning this fight, this I'll-stare-you-down-until-you-break contest. But that's because they play with other people. If they try it with each other they could end up in the same stance all day, each one waiting for the other to crack, resisting the urge to give in themselves. "What's going on, Tess?" he says finally.

She sighs heavily and sets down her mug on the coffee table. "Nothing."

"Please. You come all the way here, don't even say why-"

"It was our birthday."

"Yeah well we had one last year too, but you didn't show up then."

"Dean made me go out with him so he could keep a eye on me while I drank. Which is pretty ridiculous if you think about it. I mean, considering that he gave me my first fake ID when I was 16 and then took me with him to a bar."

"I'm serious Tess – wait, what?"

"What?"

"When was that? Where was I?"

"I don't know, probably studying or something. He didn't want you to get in trouble."

"Oh but you could?"

"I wouldn't. Didn't either."

He sat motionless for a moment, suddenly no longer in the reminiscing mood. What a fucked up family. Now the only memories that were coming were ones he'd much rather forget, certainly not ones of things he missed. He shakes his head and tries to get rid of all those thoughts so he can get back to the point, but he's forgotten what that was to begin with. Now the only point worth making is simple. "Why do you stay there?"

"Where?"

"With them? With Dad and Dean?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because they're my family."

"You don't need to do what you do though. You could do so much more with your life."

"Ah, you mean like go to college?"

"Yes, like go to college. Or don't go if you don't want to, but do something."

"I am doing something Sam."

"You know what I mean."

Her face begins to get red and her lips grow tight together forming a firm line. She takes a minute to formulate her words before speaking, being careful not to say too much. "You have no idea what I do Sam. You have no idea."

"Tessa, I did it too, all the research and fighting, the recon and hunting trips. I know."

"No. You don't."

"Tess."

"Look, Sam," she pauses, unsure of what to say. The anger starts to dissipate, but it only leaves confusion in its wake and suddenly she can't help but think that she never should have come here at all. She shouldn't be having this conversation because ultimately it's just not one she _can_ have. Not with him. Not with anyone. So what's the point really? "I'm glad you're here," she says softly. "I'm glad you left, went away like you did. Not because I like you being gone, but because it was the right thing for you. I mean that."

"It could be the right thing for you too."

"I know what my life is, I know what it's for."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Now he was the one getting angry. "Don't worry about it."

"Don't –"

"Sam, you're better than that, that's all. That's all I'm saying. I don't even know what that means really, it's just…I don't know. You're like my better half, you know. So I'm glad you're out there, here, being…better. It frees me up to do what I need to do."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know." She turns to him and looks him straight in the eye, prepares to tell him what she came here to say, what she should have just come out and said from the beginning. But she can't. "I have to go," is all that comes out.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Waking up in a cold sweat was nothing new for him these days, in fact it seemed like that was pretty much the only way he woke anymore. It was always the same, his dreams. It was always her. Jessica. They weren't always the same as the ones he had just before her death, and they weren't always simply a reliving of it either. But they always ended with her on the ceiling, blood on his face. He could taste the deep saltiness of the drops that rolled in his mouth. He could feel the heat of the fire that engulfed her. And every time, every time, he felt the sudden sickness of grief and horror rise up in him like vomit rising in his throat.

So he didn't sleep. That was the best solution, he had decided. He would forgo sleep and concentrate instead on working, on doing what he could to find her killer, whatever it might be. And of course in so doing he needed to find his father, find him and see if he knew anything. He was sure he did. The man had spent the last 22 years trying to figure out what happened to his wife, and there was not a doubt in Sam's mind that he must have, in all that time, discovered something. Besides, could it really have been nothing more than a coincidence that this happened to Jess, happened to him, right when his father decided to disappear? Not likely.

Dean rolled over in his sleep and moaned. He had forgotten about that, about how his brother tended to talk in his sleep. Only it's not really talking, he never uses words, just moans and whimpers, unintelligible sounds. But really that was all anyone needed to hear in order to know what was going on his head. He was worried, tense. He probably felt the same way Sam did about the motives behind their father's disappearance. He too likely thought it was all about this, this…thing, that took the life of their mother. And Jessica. So he was scared, that was what the tossing and turning, that tight little moan, told Sam. Dean was scared, and that scared the hell out of him as well.

He'd gone on hunting trips by himself before, Dean that is. He'd taken care of all sorts of infestations and hauntings on his own. But he was never really _on his own_. Dad was always just a phone call away. And Tessa was too. Always. Now Dad was missing, no where to be found. He didn't answer his phone, he didn't check email. He was simply gone. And for all intents and purposes Tess was too.

They'd had the same conversation dozens of times over the last couple of months. She and Dad had a fight and she left. Where'd she go? All over. She's out doing re-con. Don't worry, she knows better than to take on anything on her own. She'll call if she needs backup. But where is she? Away. But when was the last time you saw her, talked to her? A while ago. She calls if she finds anything. She lets me know what she's doing, how she is. She's just…away, on her own. But how do you know she's all right? She's a big girl.

That's how it always ended. _She's a big girl, Sam. Leave it alone. She's a big girl, she can take of herself. She's a big girl, back off._ Sam knew it was true, but with all that was going on he couldn't help but be concerned. And despite Dean's attempts at nonchalance, he knew that he was worried too, could tell by the sound of his voice whenever he did talk to her, the look in his eyes when he read the emails she'd sent Sam. But as is typical of his brother, Dean never brought it up. He asked if she was okay and left it at that, even though he clearly didn't believe her when she answered with _fine_. Everything was business, that's how it was with this family. Emotions just get in the way. Worry slows you down. Fear makes you useless. Caring dulls your senses. All that mattered was the job, whatever that may be at the time. So that's what they talked about when she called. Some unexplained deaths in Vermont. A bunch of kids acting like vampires in LA. A satanic cult outside of Chicago possibly dealing in human sacrifice, that was the most recent one. She'd email news articles with snippets of possible explanations she'd come up with, and if they thought there might be something to it, they'd head out that way to investigate. Of course if she was ever there, she never stayed long enough to see them.

And so, like their father, she too had left Dean to his own devices. And even though Sam knew he was probably completely capable, he just couldn't leave his brother. Not now. Not when things were this dangerous, this tense. And really, he didn't want to be alone either. It wasn't just that he was upset, grieving and scared. Or that he felt he needed help in finding Jessica's killer, though he knew he did. It was something else. Something was happening to him, something he didn't, couldn't, understand. It was the dreams. The ones after her death were obvious, he was traumatized, of course he'd have trouble forgetting about it. But the ones before, the ones where he saw her die?

"Hey." He turns suddenly, looking up from his laptop and seeing a sleepy-eyed Dean staring at him, his forehead creased with worry. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," he says, returning to the screen. He types in his ID and scrolls through his emails.

"Early or late?" Dean asks as he grabs the digital clock and turns it so he can see. He squints hard to make out the bright red numbers. "Three a.m. Shit."

Sam listens as his brother lays back down, the rustle of the sheets being the only sound in the room. He knows he's not going back to sleep. But he tries to ignore it, tries to ignore the green eyes burning into the back of his skull. Instead he just keeps scrolling, deleting all the junk mail as he goes.

"You should really get some sleep," he mumbles from the bed behind him. _Yeah_, he thinks, _I haven't heard that lately_. "Sam – "

"Tessa sent us something," he says, eager to change the subject. Somehow the twin thing has managed to save him again. The girl had perfect timing.

"What?" Dean asks, rolling out of bed to investigate. He looms over Sam's shoulder as he opens the email. "Sleepwalker kills," he reads from the forwarded news article. "St. Louis Post Dispatch."

Sam laughs, remembering the last time they went to St. Louis, just a couple of weeks before. "They're not big fans of yours there."

"Yeah," he says, glaring at his younger brother. When they left Missouri it was with the knowledge that everyone in St. Louis thought Dean Winchester was a serial killer, one whom had been shot dead during another attempt on someone's life. "You can write her back. Tell her no way in hell am I going there."

"Didn't you tell her about what happened?"

"I don't think so. I haven't talked to her in a while. Guess she hasn't found anything very interesting lately."

"You could call her you know."

"Yeah, and you could pop a couple Ambien and give me some peace."

"Just cause I'm awake doesn't mean you have to be. Go back to bed."

"Yeah right. Move," he says, pushing Sam out of the way and sitting in the chair he had been occupying. "Huh," he mutters, scrolling through the article.

Sam leaves his spot behind his brother, no longer caring about the fact that he was just shoved away from his own computer, had his place stolen right out from under him. He was used to stuff like that with Dean anyway. And right now, the full weight of the last sleepless 48 hours were catching up with him. He sits on the foot of his still made bed and leans back as Dean reads aloud from the email.

"According to Schenkel he was asleep when the act occurred and recalls nothing of the gruesome murder itself. All he claims to remember is the dream he was acting out, wherein he believed he was defending a loved one. Mr. Clark, it seems, simply got in the way of the sleepwalker, says Schenkel's attorney. Dr. Steven Sommerset, a clinical psychologist who specializes in sleep disorders says that the accused may be telling the truth. 'It is often possible for people to act out their dreams. This occurs when a certain chemical in the brain that is typically released during REM is for whatever reason depleted. This chemical causes the person to become paralyzed while in the dream state. But for some it does not always take effect and their body's are left to behave as though what is occurring in the dream is actually happening in reality.'"

Dean turns around in his chair and glances at Sam who, while still awake, has shut his eyes for the first time in many hours. "Hey," he says, seemingly unaware of the fact that his brother is actually trying to do what he wanted him to, sleep. "You remember when Tessa used to sleepwalk? Man, what a pain in the ass."

"Yeah," he says, not moving from his relaxed position. "You didn't have to share a room with her though."

"But I did have to grab her before walking out onto the freeway at two in the morning. And I had to double check all the locks in your rooms."

"Which is exactly what woke me up most nights, her fumbling with the damn locks."

"_And_ I had make sure none of the places we stayed had pools or balconies."

That was a legitimate point. When she was 13 and the sleepwalking had reached its peak, a point where she did it at least once a week, things started to get dangerous. One time she wandered outside the motel and down to the pool, where she fell right in. She woke as soon as her skin made contact with the icy water and pulled herself out, returned to their room a dripping mess. Another time she jumped off the balcony of their fifth story room. Well, not jumped really, more prepared to. She climbed over the railing and readied herself to let go just as their father reached out grabbed her arm. That was the scariest one for all of them, especially Tessa who woke dangling above the hotel parking lot. From then on they stayed on the ground floor.

"Yeah," Sam goes on, his voice hushed from fatigue. "A real pain in the ass."

Dean lets out a slight laugh and turns back to the laptop. "Says here this guy thought he heard someone calling him and just started walking to where the voice was coming from. The victim just got in his way, tried to wake him probably. You know what they say about waking a sleepwalker."

"Don't do it."

"But the guy thought he was hurting the woman who was calling him, his dead wife," he says, his voice and eyebrow both rising in interest.

"So he killed him?"

"Guess so. That's weird though, right?"

"Weird."

"I mean his dead wife calls out to him in a dream, he goes to her, and ends up killing some guy."

"Yeah, weird."

"Maybe we should go."

"I thought you didn't want to set foot in St. Louis ever again," he says pulling himself upright so he can look at his brother, or at the back of his head anyhow.

As if on cue, Dean turns to face him. "Could be something though."

"Or it could be some whack job looking to get out of taking responsibility for a murder he obviously committed."

Deans shakes his head admonishingly. "So cynical. Besides, don't you think he would have come up with a better story than that?"

"Okay, fine, he sleepkilled. Whatever. Doesn't make it something we should look into. People have dreams when their grieving, dreams where the dead call out to them. And…does it say how his wife died?"

He looks back at the screen and scrunches his face as he searches the article. "Car jacking, about a month ago."

"See, she was murdered. So of course he's going to be thinking someone's out to hurt her. Someone _did_ hurt her. And now he's playing it all back in his mind, only this time he did what he wished he could have done the first time and he protects her by killing the guy. And it would all just be dream, a simple unimportant dream of a guilty feeling guy who's grieving over his wife, except that, for whatever reason, some chemical wasn't released in his brain and he acted it all out."

"Okay. Excuse me Dr. Freud."

"I'm just saying, it's pretty obvious stuff."

"If you say so."

"Not worth our time."

"Okay then."

"So just forget about it."

"Forgotten."

"Good," he says, letting his body once again collapse onto the bed. This time when his eyes close the rest of him relaxes too, and sleep takes over.

"Hey Sammy."

"Hmmm," he utters, just aware enough to know he's being spoken too but not awake enough to care.

"Just make sure those chemicals are working in your brain, cause the last thing I need is to become some victim in somebody else's nightmare." Sam rolls over without responding and Dean goes back to the computer, intent on finishing the article and deciding for himself whether or not this thing is worth looking into. But all he can think about is how similar this Schenkel guy is to his little brother. How right now not five feet away Sam was probably having a very similar dream all his own. One where the woman he loves calls out for him, hoping he'll save her. One that Sam'll wake from every time realizing he can't. And suddenly other people's problems, no matter how strange and awful, just don't seem to matter as much anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

"What did he say? Sam, what did he say?" The phone call had naturally taken them both off guard. It had been six months since either had heard from their father despite multiple voice mails pleading with him to contact them. Now, out of no where, he calls and tells them to back off, stop looking for him, do their job. Dean took down all the names and locations he was given, ever the dutiful son, but no matter how determined he was to follow his father's orders, go to these places do his job, he still longed to know what was happening.

"You talked to him. You heard him," Sam shoots back angrily. "He wants us to leave him alone."

"Yeah, I got that part. What did he say before?" Sam continues to rummage through the dresser drawers, clothes flying haphazardly toward the bed. They're done here. The asylum, hopefully at least, is safe, aside from being condemned and in desperate need of demolition. No reason to stick around. Yet Dean hasn't moved from his bed, hasn't even considered packing up or showering before heading out. He won't go anywhere until he gets some answers. "Damn it, Sam!"

He turns wildly, swinging around to face his brother, a glare burning into Dean's face as he speaks to him. "He said he knows what killed mom and Jess. He said it was a demon. He said he thinks he might have found it."

"What?"

"That's what he said," he spits out before collapsing onto the corner of the bed, letting his head fall into the cradle of his hands.

Dean sits opposite him, still encased in the scratchy hotel sheets, mouth agape. A demon? A demon? Even Dad can't do that on his own, handle that, can he? And he's sure? He knows this is it, the thing that murdered her, them? How? 22 years and now he figures it out? A demon? His mind races, trying to figure out just what to say, just what to think. But ultimately the only thing that comes out is, "He gave us an order. We have work to do."

The next several hours the brothers spend in silence, driving to their first destination. Dean sits in the passenger seat reviewing everything he's found on the couples his father told him about, the town in Indiana where they supposedly disappeared. It's one of the few instances when he's willing to let Sam drive, and it's probably a good decision. There's no way Sam could concentrate on the task at hand, the job they're heading to. There's no way he could think about anything but the brief conversation with Dad. He goes over every detail in his head, the way he sounded, his voice cracking some when he mentioned Jess. He said he was close, he's closing in on it. It. What would a demon want with them, with their family? Maybe nothing, maybe it's just not important. Did the demon that possessed the pilot really want anything with him or the others on the plane? Just death, destruction. That's what their about, right? What else did he say? Stop looking for me, it's too dangerous. It's not even safe talking right now. Are they always listening, watching? How can they compete with that? And Tessa. Have you talked to your sister? No? Fine. Fine? What did that mean? He didn't say "tell her I called, tell her what I said." He didn't say not to either. He just went on to give them names and locations, jobs.

Well not everyone is as equipped to take orders as Dean. Not everyone can just go against their gut, refuse to head where they know they should be, just because someone tells them to. Sam certainly couldn't. So he stops the car.

"What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" he asks, his hands still plastered to the wheel. "What are _we_ doing, Dean? I mean, what the hell? We shouldn't be here. We should be going to find Dad."

"He doesn't want us to," he counters. "He gave an order."

"I don't care." Sam shifts in his seat and readies himself for the fight he knows is coming, the one that this time he won't lose. Dad always gives orders. Dean always follows those orders. But Sam swore a long time ago that he wasn't going to take orders anymore, not from anyone. Not from Dad, and certainly not from Dean.

"Sam," he starts, the anger beginning to burn in his cheeks. But he does not go on. The ringing of his cell phone cuts off the chiding that was about to be unleashed, and as if on cue the tension hangs, lingering but not controlling, like a game put on pause. "Hello?" he says into the receiver, short and terse. Sam can't make out who's on the other end, can't hear anything other than indiscernible mumbling.

"Tessa," he says, acknowledging the caller while also glaring at his younger brother. _This isn't over_, the look says. And he turns away, already engrossed in what she has to say. "Uh huh…yeah." Long pause on Dean's side, lots of mumbling on hers. "Yeah, Tess, listen…" Cut off. She goes on while he moves in his seat, clearly impatient. His head droops, mouth tightens as he forces himself to wait before trying to get a word in. But he is not a patient person. "Tessa, stop. I can't do this now." He looks up at Sam, who's still silently stewing. "I have to go. I'll have to call you back." She protests, but his mind is only on one thing right now, and he can't take her on as well. "I'll call you back," he says again before flipping the phone shut.

"What was that?" Sam asks, clearly not interested.

"Something about deals. Making deals and trading lives or souls or something. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"She wasn't making sense. It happens. She gets some idea in her head and just goes with it, and…it doesn't matter. Start the car."

Sam takes a breath, turns and locks eyes with Dean, looks at him hard with an unwavering stare. "No."

He left once before already. He went against everyone's hopes, everyone's needs. He left and didn't look back. But how'd that turn out? Maybe Dean was right. Maybe he was just a selfish bastard. All he ever wanted growing up was to be normal, have a normal life with a normal family. But what did that really mean anyway? What was normal? Just before going away to Stanford he had decided, actually thought it all out and came to the definite conclusion that his life absolutely sucked. Poor, poor Sam. No one cared about him or about what he wanted, needed. His childhood was a pathetically scripted tragedy. This was how he felt, really and truly.

Then Dad went missing. Jessica was killed. Dean came back. And he was right back where he started. But this time he wasn't hoping for anything more. This time he wasn't thinking about how awful his existence was, tracking down evil things, things that go bump in the night. This time he didn't think he was a freak. He was _aware_. He knew things that other people didn't and it was his responsibility to use that knowledge. It was his responsibility to find and kill the thing that took his girlfriend's life. But it was also his responsibility to make sure that nothing like what happened to her, to him, ever happened to anyone else. That was what he finally realized. And all it took was disobeying his father's orders, abandoning his brother, and heading half way across the country alone, with nothing but his conscience, for him to learn it.

Yes, he had left before. But he won't be taking off again, not any time soon.

They'll find Dad. They won't stop searching. But in the meantime, they have a job to do. This is what he's thinking about now, sitting in front of his computer at one in the morning looking up info on an old house a couple blocks away. The place is one of the only surviving farms in the area, as most were sold, torn down, their lots paved over and plastered with strip malls and parking lots, coffee shops and motels like the one he was in now. But somehow this one house survived all that, probably because it been handed down from generation to generation, and no one wanted to sell it. And that was probably related to all the old family secrets it contained.

"Find anything?" Dean asks as he bursts into the room. He kicks the door shut and drops his keys on the table before offering Sam one of the coffees he had managed to so delicately balance. "Muffin?" he asks, waving the paper bag he had stashed in his other hand. Sam shakes his head no, taking off the top of the coffee cup and sipping carefully.

"So," Dean mutters, his mouth full of blueberry muffin. "Whatcha find?"

"Not a lot. Couple of mysterious disappearances, but no evidence of foul play."

"Yeah right."

"Just what the news articles say. They were a pretty powerful family back in the day, probably managed to keep their business to themselves. At least out of the media. But the locals should know something, don't you think?" he asks, turning around to see his brother still looming over his shoulder, coffee in one hand, crumbly muffin in the other. He nods in agreement, mouth too full to speak. "What are you doing?"

"What?" he says, crumbs falling from his lips.

"What is that? Blueberry?"

He swallows, a big gulp. "Yeah."

"That was mine."

"No it wasn't."

"Yeah it was," he says standing and grabbing the bag off the bedside table. He reaches in and pulls out another muffin, looks at it suspiciously and sniffs. "Banana nut," he declares, disgusted.

"You like banana nut."

"No,_ I _like blueberry. You like banana nut."

"Well I like blueberry too."

"What am I supposed to eat now?"

"I think there are still some Cheetos in the glove box."

"Thanks a lot."

"Any time," he says, taking a seat where Sam was. "So this is it, huh?" He pages through the few articles, shaking his head. "You're useless."

"Jerk," he hears from behind him just as a muffin hits the back of his head.

"Hey, I was gonna eat that!"

The computer let's out a _ding_ and they both look to the screen. "Dude," Dean says, leaning down to pick up the felled muffin, "you've got mail." Sam heads over and pushes his brother out of the way. "Tessa," he says, reading over his shoulder. "Now there's someone who knows how to research."

"Shut up. When was the last time she helped us out anyway?" _When was the last time we even heard from her?_ Weeks ago. Four, to be exact, which really is a month. And it was the first time since this all began, since Sam started back, that he hadn't heard from his sister for that long. Usually if got to be a week, maybe two, with no leads, she would at least give a call or a quick email. _Just checking in. How's it going?_ That was what he expected when he opened this email, a terse and pointless salutation to which he would respond with _Fine. Where the hell have you been?_

But instead what he found was two photos. They were familiar, ones he'd seen before, ones she probably had in a scrapbook or frame or something somewhere. She must have scanned them in to send. "Why's she sending us old pictures?"

"I don't know," he says, scrolling down to the bottom to see if there's any more, any writing, explanation. But there isn't. All there is are two old pictures. One is of her sitting on their dad's lap when she was no more than three or four. The other is a Polaroid snapshot of Sam playing hockey with a couple of other boys. It would have been hard to call those kids his friends since they never stuck around anywhere long enough, or behaved normal enough, for any of them to make any real friends. But he knew them. They played hockey together at least a couple of times a week at the lake nearby. Nearby the little house they rented in Minnesota for the winter that is. It was one of the only times they had stayed in the same place for almost an entire season. They had wondered why their father would choose one of the coldest places on the planet it seemed to spend winter, but as long as they got to spend it in a house, with separate rooms, a kitchen, and a yard, they didn't mind. And once the lake froze over they had something to do, not that any of them had ever been in skates before. But two local kids, the two in the photo, decided to make it their mission to teach Sam how to move on the ice. And Tessa too since she always managed to tag along. At 12 they were beginning to tire of each other and resisted spending too much time together. But really, what else was there to do? Sam wanted to learn how to play hockey, and Tessa wanted to hang out with Jeremy, the kid in the photo with the great big smile. The kid who just a week after that picture was taken, was dead.

But that was ten years ago. A family picture and a throw away snapshot from a decade ago. Why would she send those?

"That's the kid that drown," Dean says, more to himself than to Sam.

"Yeah."

"What's that about?"

He turns around and looks at Dean and they share a concerned stare. Their sister was odd, sometimes unpredictable. She'd immerse herself in various studies, become obsessed with them almost to the point of lunacy. But never beyond that _almost_ point. Now she's forgone contact with them. She hasn't been working, or at least hasn't indicated to them that she had been. The last call they'd received was the one Dean cut her off during, the one where she'd spent the entire time jabbering on about deals made with devil or some such nonsense. And now old photos with no explanation.

"Maybe we should try calling her," Sam says hesitantly.

"You think?" He nods and Dean reaches into his pocket, retrieves the phone and dials. They wait. One ring. Two. Three. Four. No answer. Her voicemail picks up on the sixth ring and he leaves a message, just as her voice on the other end instructs him to do. "Hey, Tess, it's me. Where are you? Listen, we just got your email and – "

"Dean," Sam calls from his place in front of the computer. He indicates the screen on which is another email from their sister.

"Call me back," he says absently into the phone before snapping it shut and moving closer to the laptop. He reaches across Sam to the keyboard and pumps away on the down arrow, moving through the entire body of the email. "What the hell?" It goes on for what would be pages and pages, all the same words, one sentence over and over and over again.

IT WAS ME.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Sorry it's been a while, hopefully not such a long while that no one's interested anymore. Just wanted to say thanks for reading and, especially ChaiGirl and GhostWriter, thanks for reviewing. I also wanted to say that I thouroughly enjoy reader participation, so if you have any comments or suggestions about the story, where it should go, whatever, please review. I know it might seem like it's moving kinda slow, but bear with me, it'll build more and more. Anyway, thanks and enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Sam sits quietly swishing the spoon around in the nearly full bowl of soup. He can't eat. The dull ache in the pit of his stomach, that which he first thought was merely concern, had been gnawing away at him for almost two days now and had yet to let up. If anything the pain had gotten worse. It was more than just worry though, that much he knew, had decided. It was real and true fear, dread. As much as he didn't want to admit it, something had happened to his sister.

They were twins after all, and even though more often than not they managed to live their lives totally independent of one another, they still had a solid connection. When he fell off a stone wall he had been scaling at age eight, she was the one who screamed out in pain, crying about her arm to her father long before he lumbered back to the house cradling his broken arm. And when they were ten and she had to be rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night due to a fever of 105, he was the one who suggested it might be strep throat, not because he had tested positive for it at the doctor's earlier that day, but because he had the symptoms. And in the end he was right; he may have felt sick all day, but it was only because she carried the ailment. Now, sitting in a half empty diner staring into a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup as his brother prattles on about how, really, they have nothing to worry about, everything's fine, now he feels a different type of sickness rise up within him.

"It's not okay," he says without looking up, stopping Dean midsentence.

"What?"

"I don't know what's going on, but I know it's not nothing, Dean. I know it's not okay." He looks up from his meal and meets his brother's gaze, gives him a rather convincing stare, and throws down some cash on the table before getting up and walking out.

Of course he was right, you didn't have to have some sort of freaky twin bond to know that something was definitely up, but what was so wrong with pretending a little, tossing out some positive thoughts amid all the negative ones? It's not that Dean wasn't worried, he just figured it would be better to actually work on the problem instead of merely being angry at the fact that there _was_ a problem. And in order to do that he had to stop dwelling on everything going on in his heart, the fear and concern, and focus on what was in his head, sifting through whatever few clues they had in order to find Tessa.

The first step was a simple one, trace her credit cards. Granted, this could have been extremely difficult, impossible even, considering that she had about ten cards and they were all under different aliases, ones that her brothers likely didn't know at all, certainly wouldn't remember if they did. But the first credit statement Dean pulled up had a charge that was made just two days prior, and so was likely one of the most recent. It was for a room at the Dawn Motel in Roseville, Texas. This is where they were headed now, where they would likely be in a couple of hours. Where, he hoped, she would be waiting for them.

The card he had traced was one that actually belonged to him. The name on it was Cameron Dune, a decidedly unisex name. That was why he gave it to her when she said she needed one about a year ago. He thought it was strange at the time, but as usual with his sister he quickly gave in, knowing that it was just easier than sitting through the harsh stares and chiding, the convincing though entirely fallacious arguments, all of which would eventually convince him anyway. But it almost makes sense now. When they began thinking of the ways to try and find her, track her down, that credit card was the first that came to mind. He hadn't thought that it would work. She was smart, she would have known that he could have easily found her with that. But there it was, the only charge placed in over a year. She wanted them to see, that much was obvious. She knew they'd find it, drop what they had been doing and rush right out to Texas. She knew. But _he_ knew too. He knew that she wouldn't still be in that motel by the time they pulled in.

"Excuse me," Dean says, a smile plastered to his face as he proceeds to charm the woman behind the counter of the Dawn Motel. She wasn't particularly attractive, certainly not young, but he knew that his boyish grin could get him just about anything from anyone, and he never hesitated to put it to use. "I'm looking for someone."

"Dean," Sam spits out of the corner of his mouth. This wasn't the plan. They were supposed to come in and get a room, _then_ proceed to find Tessa's and either simply knock in the hopes that she'd be there, or just break in. They weren't supposed to tip anyone off as to their intentions.

Dean shoots him a quick _I know what I'm doing_ look and turns back to the woman. OLIVIA, that's what her nametag says. "So, anyway, my associate and I are looking for someone, and we thought you may have seen her." He waits for a response but gets none. Awkwardly he continues. "You see, we're private investigators and we're currently searching for a young woman who stole a great deal of money from our…current employer. We have reason to believe she may have passed though here, maybe even stayed at your motel for a while." Again he flashes a smile and waits for some sort of response, a smile in turn, a nod of the head, a blink. But she continues to stare at him stonily.

With Dean obviously off put by Olivia's reaction, or lack thereof, Sam takes action, jumping in front of his brother. "She's about 5'9, slim, long dark hair, sort of wavy. We think she may have paid with a credit card issued to Cameron Dune. It wouldn't have been long ago, just a few days."

Olivia takes a deep breath, a loud and guttural sigh, and leans her elbows on the counter. "Who'd she steal from?"

"Um," Sam starts, surprised by her odd request. "I'm really not at liberty to say."

"No?"

"No…ma'am."

"He wouldn't be some young buck with a penchant for violence now would he?" Sam and Dean exchange confused glances before simultaneously shaking their heads 'no'. "Because I don't need that kind of trouble around here. That's just what I told her when she checked in too. I don't need no trouble."

"So she was here?" Sam asks quickly.

"I didn't say that."

"What are you saying, lady?" Dean chimes in, clearly annoyed.

"I'm saying that if there were a girl like that who came in here all beat to hell, talking about how she has to get away from some crazy boyfriend of hers, I might let her stay just out of pity. But I won't say anything that's gonna bring trouble into my establishment after that. Y'all understand?"

"No," says Sam, "not really."

Dean pushes Sam aside and leans forward on the counter, placing his elbows not even an inch away from hers. "Is she here?"

The woman leans into him, stares him icily in the eyes. "Who's asking?"

"Look lady – "

"My name ain't _lady_," she says, pointing to her nametag.

"Look," he tries again, but is, again, interrupted.

"Why don't you just tell me who y'all really are? Then maybe I'll _look_ for her."

"I told you – "

"She's our sister," Sam says from behind. Dean turns and offers him an incredulous stare while Olivia works to retrieve something from under the counter.

"I thought so," she says, still fumbling around. "She said you'd come. Course she also said someone else might, and I shouldn't say nothing to him, or them, or whatever. Guess that'd be the boyfriend. She called y'all to come rescue her? Well, no matter to me. I just figured you were them, her brothers, cause y'all are just about how she described you. Here," she says, holding out a key and dropping it into Sam's outstretched palm. "Room 14."

"What…what about the boyfriend, her boyfriend, did she say anything about him?" Sam asked warily.

"Nope. Her face said enough though."

"She was hurt?"

"Bruised and bloodied, but she said she was fine. Acted fine too, except a little jumpy. But who wouldn't be, right?"

"Right."

"Did she say anything else?" Dean asks.

"Anything, like what? I didn't want to know. I already told y'all, I don't want no trouble, don't even want to know about no trouble. She asked for a room. I asked her what happened, she said her boyfriend beat her up and that's why she needed a room. Said she doubted he'd find her but if anybody came looking, turn 'em away. Unless they was you two. She said eventually you'd show and I should give you a key and point you in the right direction. She paid up through the end of next week, but if y'all leave before that, let me know, will ya?"

"Yeah, sure. So she's still here?"

"Guess so. I ain't seen her leave since she checked in. Course I try not to take notice. Like I said, I don't want no trouble and I don't want to know nothing about no trouble neither."

"Right, yeah. Thanks," Sam says turning to leave.

Dean follows just behind, shaking his head solemnly. "Crazy much?" he says glancing back at the woman through the grimy window.

Their hopes are high when they reach room 14 that Tessa may still be there, but no one answers their knocks, so they simply enter the dark room key in hand. The lights are all out and every curtain is drawn, thick dusty curtains that manage to block out almost any trace of sunlight. Dean feels along the wall for a switch, finds it, flips it and freezes in place. "Wow," he says absently as Sam makes his way past and over to the bed. The room is filled with books, maybe a hundred or so, all stacked along the far wall in neat little piles. On the table her laptop sits, on but closed, saved on standby. And spread out on the bed are hundreds and hundreds of papers, stacked and separated much like the books. Sam goes to investigate, plucking piece after piece from the tops of the various piles, scanning them for anything important, reading to see what exactly they all are. Several piles are filled with news articles, ones printed off the Internet, clipped from the paper, or copied from microfiche. The dates seemed to range from over fifty years ago to just last week. Elsewhere there were printed pages, pages copied from books, and handwritten notes on a variety of topics, pyromania, succubus, ritual sacrifice, to name a few.

"Looks like we've got some reading to do," Dean says, picking up one of the books along the wall. "Dictionnaire Infernal," he reads in broken French. He puts the book down and starts going through the chest of drawers to his right. "Nothing," he says after closing the last empty one with a thud.

"She's not here," Sam utters from his precarious perch on the bed, where he sits trying to keep from disturbing the papers.

"Thank you Captain Obvious."

"No, I'm saying she's not here. She just left all of this for us." Dean raises his eyebrows and tosses up his hands. _Yeah, duh!_ "All of this stuff though…where'd it come from? I mean it must have taken her forever."

"I don't really care about that, Sam."

"And her laptop," he says, rising and going over to the small table, "why would she leave that?"

"I don't know. Why would she leave her cell phone?" Sam turns and sees Dean standing by the bedside table, Tessa's cell in his hand.

"It doesn't make any sense," he says shaking his head and tuning his attention to the computer, which when turned on reveals nothing but a page from her email account alerting that the message has been successfully sent. The date was two days ago and the address was his.

"She doesn't always make sense," Deans utters absently, looking though the papers on the bed. "A lot of this stuff is about demons. You think she's been helping Dad out? I mean with the research and all?"

"I thought you said they hadn't even talked in like a year."

"Yeah, not that I know of, but…maybe she figured something out, found something. I don't know." He puts down the paper he had been reading, one filled with her handwriting, quick notes and scribbles about the Alphabet of Ben Sir, whatever that was, and goes into the bathroom to rummage some more. No toothbrush, no toiletries of any kind. All he finds are a couple of bloody towels in the bathtub, some band-aid wrappers in the trash, and a couple of pill bottles.

"Hey, Sammy, he says, leaning his head out of the bathroom. "What's Risperdal?"

"What?"

He comes though the doorway, bottles in hand and sets them down next to the computer as he speaks. "Risperdal. It's a prescription for Teresa Albright. There's also some Lithium for Teresa Polar. Funny. That's for Bi-_polar_ Disorder, right?"

"Lithium? Yeah I think so."

"And you said Dr. Phil would never come in handy."

"Risperdal's an anti-psychotic."

"And I'm guessing that Teresa Albright and Teresa Polar are probably the same person."

"Yeah, Teresa Winchester maybe."

"So little sister's using fake names to get prescriptions for psych meds, managing to get the shit kicked out of her by…someone, and still finds the time to do all this research, send out creepy emails and disappear into thin air. Great. She's more of a pro than I thought."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

"Alchemy," Sam says, flipping through books chosen from the pile in the corner. As usual his sister had managed an inordinate amount of organization. Sure they may both be sort of neat freaks, but she had taken this to a new level. It probably took as long to put all this stuff together as it did to find and collect it in the first place. "This whole pile is stuff about alchemy," he says, glancing back at his brother.

Dean responds simply with a wave of the hand, a quick _leave me alone_ gesture. His back is to Sam as he sits on the bed, the old motel phone receiver sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. He's been on hold for nearly five minutes while the Danbury Mental Health Clinic in Vermont works to find Teresa Polar's file. His patience, of course, ran out about four minutes and thirty seconds ago.

"Some of the pages are marked. In all of these," Sam says out loud, though he obviously is talking more to himself than Dean. "Underlined, highlighted, I can't tell what all is important and what's not. It's like everything – "

"Sam!"

He turns around from his spot on the floor and met with a threatening glare. "You're on hold," he says, shaking his head, unswayed by his brother's show. He returns to the page before him and reads while trying to ignore the angry eyes burning into the back of his head.

"Yeah, I'm still here." Finally he's taken off hold. "Yeah, yeah, faxing them would be great," he says into the phone, then, "Sam," he hisses, covering the mouthpiece. "I need a fax number." Sam gives him an incredulous look. _What do you want me to do about it?_ And Dean sighs, rubs his eyes as he thinks of something to say. "You know what," he continues into the phone, "my fax isn't actually up yet. We just switched offices and – " He waits as the voice on the other line drones on. "Hey, yeah, that would be great," he says, sitting upright. "That's right, Roseville. Yeah, small town, I know." A pause on his end. "Uh huh, we just moved from Fort Worth. Yeah, well – " Interrupted again. "Hey, great. Oh, yeah, I think I've seen it. 4th and Everston, right, sounds familiar. Hey you're a lifesaver. What's your name again?" he asks in his charm-filled I'll-flirt-with-you-all-day-if-that's-what-it-takes way. "Cindy. Well, Cindy, you are amazing." The voice on the other end softens even more and lets out a girlish giggle, proving that the 100-watt I-can-get-whatever-I-want smile is perceivable even over the phone. "No, thank you," he says before hanging up.

"No, thank you," Sam mocks from his corner.

"I gotta go into town. There's a Kinko's she's gonna fax the medical records to."

"Are you kidding me? She's faxing confidential information like that to a Kinko's?"

"Yeah, she didn't seem too bright," he says, jumping up and slipping into his jacket. "But as long as it works to our advantage, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," Sam says, still flipping through dusty pages. "Hey, listen to this. 'According to certain Kabbalistic theories, while mankind and, in truth, most of creation is thought to be representative of all four of the basic elements, the shedim are considered to have been created only out of fire and air.' Huh."

"The she-what?"

"Shedim. Demons."

Dean stands for a minute, his brows knitted with confusion, before shaking off the odd bit of information and turning to leave. "Yeah, whatever. I'll be back."

One hour and two coffees later Dean strides back into the little motel room, both buzzed and burnt out. He sets all his papers down on the table, looks to the corner and sees Sam sitting in front of the wall of books, legs crossed, just as he left him. He sits down at the table, taps his fingers for a moment and jumps back up, paces a few steps and quickly turns on his heel. "Anything?" he asks, too loud, too obtrusive.

Sam's head pop's up and he gives his brother a _what's with you_ look before shaking his head. "Not really. You?"

"No," he says, continuing his pacing. As though an after thought he stops and removes his jacket.

"You get the records?" Sam asks, rising and stretching. His legs ache from lack of use and his neck is so stiff he can barely move his head.

"Yeah. Nothing's really in them though. I mean, she checked herself in, said she was depressed. Supposedly she had a manic episode her third day there, that's when they started the Lithium. But it doesn't really give any details."

"How long was she there?"

"Two weeks. It was last month. The day she checked herself out, that was the day she called."

"The day Dad called," he says plainly as he strides over to the table where Dean has just sat down.

"Yeah," he says, pushing his fingers through his hair clearly frustrated.

"You think she was faking?" Dean looks up at him confused. "The mania. The depression too. I mean, do you think she was faking it all?"

"I don't know." His voice comes out reeking of exhaustion despite the anxious and energized tapping of his foot.

"The pill bottle's full. She hasn't taken anything. If it were real…I mean if she really were sick, she probably would have been taking the medication, right?" No response. "I'm just saying, she's a little nuts sometimes, but she's not crazy. So why'd she go there?" Nothing. "Dean?"

"I don't know," he says slowly, angrily, the words slithering out from in between his clenched teeth. The two brothers share a tense stare before Dean finally breaks his eyes away and throws his head back in an exasperated sigh. "A couple of weeks ago I would have said no way. No way is she crazy, bi-polar, or delusional, or whatever. But this…_this_," he says, sweeping his arm to indicated everything in the room, "is crazy." He pauses briefly and rubs his eyes, shoving his fingertips into his lids until his vision is filled with tiny lights and bright shooting colors.

"It means something. It might seem crazy, but it all means something," Sam says as he makes his way back over to the far wall. "I've been going through all this stuff and I think you're right. It's like everything here, even things that seemingly have no connection…all of it leads to the same place. Or led her to it anyway. It's all about demons, most of it. It all comes back to demons. So Dad calls out of no where and says that Mom and Jess were killed by a demon and meanwhile Tess is compiling a whole library on the subject. It's not a coincidence, Dean."

"You think she and Dad talked about it?"

"It'd be an awful big coincidence if the both of them figured all this stuff out at the same time totally independent of each other, don't you think?"

"Yeah, maybe," he says, suddenly more awake. He gets up and moves to the bedside table where Tessa's cell phone still sits.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing who she's called." They already went through all over voicemails earlier in the day, finding only two, both being from Dean. But the call log had only a few random numbers. "Look these up, will ya?" he says tossing Sam the phone. Dutifully, Sam heads to the laptop and types away as Dean begins to clean off the bed, being careful not to shuffle the papers, keeping them in their neat piles. "So what kind of stuff _did_ you find?"

"Huh?" he asks, still typing away. "Oh, um, I didn't get very far. There's a lot of stuff here. Most of what I read so far was about fire and how it can be manipulated by various demons."

"Sounds kind of obvious," Dean offers as he lays the last stack of papers on the floor and moves to lay down on the bed.

"Yeah, well…it's kind of hard to tell what exactly she thought was the most important since so much stuff is marked. But where I am now, I figure she found the connection and decided to pursue it. Just not sure where it led her yet."

"Well I'm all for figuring that out, but if I try to read anything right now I think my eyes might permanently cross."

"Your eyes? I'm the one who's been going through all this stuff for the last four hours.

"Yeah, whatever man," he says, rolling onto his side in the bed. He shifts suddenly when something hard jabs into his temple through the pillow.

"None of the numbers as coming up as listed. They could be pay phones, hotel rooms, something like that. Maybe a place Dad was staying. You know, since he didn't call us from his cell, maybe he wouldn't use it talk to her either." He goes on, scrolling through the pages he's just pulled up while Dean searches for the object beneath his pillow. A Walkman. The headphones had been the perpetrators. "One of the area codes is from Sommerset, Georgia. Another from…Sacramento. That's where Dad called us from," he says, turning to Dean. "What's that?" he asks, indicating his brother's find.

"What does it look like?" he responds smartly before putting on the headphones and pushing play. He sees Sam turn back to the computer screen as the blues guitar unfolds into his ears.

Early this mornin' 

_When you knocked upon my door_

_Early this mornin', ooh_

_When you knocked upon my door_

_And I said, "Hello Satan,_

_I believe it's time to go."_

_Me and the Devil_

_Was walking side by side_

_Me and the Devil, ooh_

_Was walking side by side_

_And I'm goin' to beat my woman_

_Until I get satisfied._

_(Me and the Devil Blues,_ Robert Johnson)

"Dean. Dean!"

He looks up and sees his brother shouting at him, barely audible from within the confines of the music. He rips off the headphones. "What?"

"The other area code is this one, Roseville."

"Huh," he responds, clearly unable or unwilling to process whether or not that bit of information is really important. He looks down at the Walkman, the CD still turning inside and pushes STOP, removes the disk and reads aloud. "Robert Johnson."

"What?" Dean tosses him the CD and Sam barely catches it, fumbling clumsily.

"Father of blues, Sam. Don't you know anything?"

"I didn't know you were into Blues."

"Precursor of classic rock," he says in a mocking tone as if to say _how stupid are you?_ "Aerosmith, Cream, Zepplin, the Stones. Man, they all worshipped this guy."

"Okay," he says, setting down the CD and returning to his work. "Everywhere I go the numbers come up unlisted."

Clearly ignoring his brother, Dean goes on. "I didn't know she like him though. I mean I tried to teach the kid about it, but she never really seemed to care. You believe that? She'd rather read a book than listen to music."

"What hospital was she in? Where was that, Vermont?" he asks, more to himself than Dean, before punching away at the keyboard some more.

"And it's not like the music stuff isn't interesting too. I mean, even for her and her twisted little, gotta look into everything supernatural mind."

"Danbury, right? Was that just the name of the clinic, or the town too?"

"Like that song, he was totally serious. Well, maybe not really. I mean it's just a legend. But still."

"Danbury Mental Health Clinic. Springsborough, Vermont. Springsborough." He types some more, scrolls down to the bottom of a page and clicks on the link to the area's newspaper archives. Then he picks up the bottle of Lithium, checks the date, types in a few days prior and waits while the next page loads.

"You would think she'd be interested in a guy who supposedly sold his soul to the devil, wouldn't you?" Dean asks, still lost in his own conversation, if it could even be called that.

"What?" Sam asks, whipping around.

"What, what?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Robert Johnson, he sold his soul to the devil." Sam looks at him, confusion washing over his face. "To play the blues," he says, as though that would explain it all. When he still does not respond Dean falls back on the bed, frustration giving way to exhaustion. He digs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Never mind. It's just a legend."

Sam turns back to the computer and immediately clicks on the first link that catches his attention. He quickly scans the article, wide eyed, and looks back at Dean, still spread out on the bed. "Four days before checking herself into that clinic something happened in Springsborough, Vermont," he says calmly, a smile playing on his face.

"Yeah," Dean offers sleepily, encouraging him to go on.

"A young woman burst into the police station in the middle of the night rambling on about a beast in her room. A demon that tries to take her husband."

Dean sits up, looks Sam in the eye. "Yeah…"

"Well they thought she was nuts, tried to get her to calm down. She thought they weren't listening to her so she grabbed one of the cop's guns."

"She shoot anybody?"

"No. But it was enough to have her arrested. They sent her, guess where?"

"Danbury."

"Yep."

"Does it say anything else, about what she said, the demon, anything?"

"Nope. But I figure that must have been enough to get Tessa's attention because a few days later is when she checked herself in."

"Ha ha," he laughs. "So she's not crazy after all. She was just doing recon."

"Now," Sam says as he gets up and heads over to the stacks of papers, "if only we knew what she found out."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

LOS ANGELES TIMES April 4, 2001

_Police responded to a 911 call from 1411 Harbor Street at 11:55 p.m., April 2, 2001. The caller was an 8-year-old child whose name has been withheld. According to police transcripts of said call, the child was in a panic and alleged that his mother was being attacked by an unseen assailant. Upon arriving at the scene the two officers dispatched found the woman lying on her bed in a state of shock. She was taken to Mercy Hospital where it was discovered that she had been a patient several months earlier of the Psychiatric Outpatient Clinic. The child was found unharmed hiding in a linen closet. When interviewed he claimed that his mother was attacked by "an invisible man." According to sources, the woman, whose identity remains unconfirmed, was placed at Hartman Psychiatric Institute in Sacramento as requested by her estranged husband. Police feel that further investigation is not warranted_.

"Kathy Riggs," Sam reads from the top of the paper. The piles, once neat and organized, have been fairly well desecrated as random sheets lie strewn about. The article from the LA Times was found buried beneath a number of other pieces cut out of various papers from around the nation. Many of them were seemingly unimportant, one discussed new drug trials, another focused a terrorist attack in Indonesia, and yet another was about an annual dog parade. It took a while for Sam and Dean to realize what she had been doing in setting things up as she did. It was a pattern, one that they were supposed to figure out for themselves, one that hopefully others wouldn't be able to. If anyone else had come into the room and began looking through the research laying about they likely would have quickly concluded that all of this was simply the work of a mad woman, some sort of paranoid and delusional individual who somehow found connections between dog parades and demons. But of course, that's how she wanted it to seem.

It took about an hour and a half before Sam found the pattern. Every third article was significant. They ran in descending order, not from the time of publication, but from the time of investigation. That, he figured out after finding a log sheet buried within yet another pile of notes, one that had written on it nothing more than the name of a city followed by two dates. He had to go through several different attempts at arranging the papers before discovering that the first date was the one on the article itself, the second then, he concluded, was when she must have gone to the city to investigate.

Once all of the newspaper clippings had been rooted through and effectively organized, he went on to find the corresponding notes. This was much more time consuming and proved to be too much of a chore for Dean who lacked the necessary patience. "She went to St. Louis," he says, hard at work on his new task, setting up an itinerary of sorts, where she went, when, and why. He put together numerous piles containing the pertinent articles and whatever snippets of information were found within the notes Sam was still going through. "Four months ago," he continues and then holds up the cut out of the article she had emailed them months ago.

"Yeah, I saw that," Sam says before looking up and preparing to change the subject. "I think Kathy Riggs was the woman from LA. This whole page has notes about the real estate market out there."

"Real estate?"

"Yeah, but the only thing that's underlined is her name." He hands the sheet to Dean and picks up another as his brother finds the pile set aside for LA and Sacramento. Already three pieces of paper sit there, the article from the Times, a print out on the objectives of Hartman Psychiatric Institute, and a torn piece of paper with a handwritten list titled Common Delusions and Hallucinations. All of the things listed there were in relation to actual events they had witnessed. _Parktowne possession…spirit inhabited a small boy for weeks. Minnesota Poltergeist…successful banishment, but not before veritable destruction to house._ They had worked those cases together, Dean and Tessa, their father too. He had always known that if other people found out about what they did they would think they all were nuts, so really, he guessed, it wasn't a bad idea to use these events as evidence of a mental illness. Certainly she'd be convincing when talking about them.

"I think I'm starting to get the hang of this," Sam says as he looks at all of the stacks that surround him.

"Yeah, well you're the only one."

"I mean there _is_ a pattern. It just changes is all. I don't know, maybe you just have to be in the right frame of mind."

"Would that be the _crazy_ frame?"

"Kind of. Man, we've being doing this for," he stops and looks at his watch, "six hours." He stretches awkwardly and rolls his head, tries to work the kinks out of his neck, but to no avail. "I guess you immerse yourself in it like this for so long and all the crazy just stars to make sense."

"Yeah, I guess so," he says turning to his brother. "Why don't you get some sleep. I can keep this up for a while."

"No offense Dean, but you're not gonna have any idea what she's done here. I mean I've been going through these and you really have to look at it all for it to make any sense."

"Excuse me, Boy Wonder. I guess I'd just be too stupid to figure anything out without your help, huh?" he says, grabbing the piece of paper from Sam's hands.

"I'm just saying, I'm kind of on a roll." He grabs another sheet and scans it for details. It's a recipe for devil's food cake. The only odd thing about it is that instead of having any flour, it calls for two cups of Mississippi mud. "Here," he says, handing it to Dean. "File under Oxford."

Dean looks at it and frowns. "What is this? A recipe? What the hell?"

"The numbers at the bottom are what we need," he says getting up and looming over Dean's shoulder, pointing to the directions at the end of the page. 23-67 minutes at 473 degrees.

"What?"

"The news from Oxford," he goes on, digging out the copied article. "February 3rd, 1967." The article is about a house fire that killed an area man, Wayne Johnson. "He was 47-years-old and is survived by his three children," Sam reads triumphantly. "And that," he indicates the sheet Dean stole from him moments ago, which now lies askew in his lap, "should be with everything from Springborough." Dean shoots him a quizzical look. "The flowers," he says, pointing to the corner of the page where tiny buds have been drawn in bright red ink. "Everything from Springborough has flowers doodled on it. Get it? Spring…flowers."

"Uh, yeah…I get it. You're both nuts."

"Just call it a twin thing."

"I just don't see why she did it, I mean set all this up, make us jump through hoops."

"She's scared it'll fall into the wrong hands. Somebody who shouldn't know will find out."

"Yeah, but who? This is a lot to go through just based on some hunch that there _might_ be somebody out there who'd want this information. She's not really the paranoid type, not _this_ paranoid anyway."

"So she knows for sure," Sam offers, taking a seat on the bed and commencing rubbing his sore neck. "When I talked to Dad he said it wasn't safe, like someone was after us, or something."

"So maybe he told her that too, told her to be careful, overly cautious."

The brothers sit in silence for a moment, Dean flips through the stack from Oxford, Mississippi while Sam remains on the bed, lost in his thoughts. Then something occurs to him. "Maybe _she_ told Dad."

Dean turns to face him. "What do you mean?"

"We kind of forgot about the little detail of her showing up here beat to hell."

"You think somebody got a hold of her?" Sam raises his eyebrows, gives Dean an _it's possible_ look. "Yeah but that was two days after Dad called us. Whatever happened to her must have happened just before she got here. There're bloody towels in the bathroom, Band-Aids. She cleaned herself up here."

"Maybe…I don't know. Maybe whoever it was got a hold of her then, but he could have been following her before or something."

"And she called Dad when she figured that out to warn him?"

"Possible." Sam takes a deep breath and scratches his head, tries to think despite the sleep deprived fog he's fallen into. "She checked out of that clinic the morning of the 29th." He goes over to the table where the recently faxed medical records still sit and reads through them. "Seven in the morning," he says without looking up.

"Seven in Vermont. We were in Illinois, that's six."

"And Dad called us around seven, our time. So she could have checked out, called him, and bailed…"

"Which she must have done, hauled ass to get here in a day and a half."

"Like she _was_ running from something."

"Okay," Dean says as he rises and starts to pace, not paying any attention to the papers his feet shuffle over. Sam doesn't seem to notice the mess he's making either. "Okay, so something happens at that clinic, and she gets scared."

"This whole time we were thinking she just found out what she needed and that's why she checked out in such a hurry. But if she was freaked about something, then that makes a lot more sense. It explains a lot, why everything's a puzzle, why we're here in the middle of no where, a place she never mentioned – "

"And isn't mentioned in any of this stuff," he says, sweeping his hand to indicate all the clutter.

"Right. And then she's gone. Because she's still running?"

"Because she doesn't want us to get hurt," he says softly, stopping in his tracks. He turns to Sam solemnly. "If this thing, or whatever, found her once, she probably thinks it could again."

"So she's playing Dad. Great." Sam lets out a frustrated sigh. Why was this family so intent on sheltering each other? Whatever this thing is, it has to do with all of them. They all should be able to know about it.

"No," Dean says firmly. "She's not. Look around, Sammy. She left everything here for us. She wants us to figure it out. But if she's being hunted…"

"Okay," he says sitting upright. "She wants us to stay safe long enough to figure this out. And as soon as we do that, we can find her, help keep her safe."

"Unless it's too late."

"Shit, Dean, don't say that! What's wrong with you?"

Dean sits back down at his chair and shakes his head absently, chiding himself for thinking the worst. But he can't help but think it.

"I would know," Sam says quietly.

Dean doesn't look up, he simply nods and reaches out for the stack of papers in front of him, flips through for a moment, and then turns to Sam. "Anything else on Oxford?"

After a couple more hours of reading the two brothers have most of the papers in some kind of order. There are now eleven piles, all of different cities, all arranged according to the date she arrived to investigate. It made sense that they do it that way so that they could go through everything as she had and ultimately then be led to the same conclusions, or so they hoped. Eleven different cities. Oxford, Mississippi. Los Angeles, California. St. Louis, Missouri. Springborough, Vermont. Sacremento, California. Archer, Pennsylvania. Arlington, Virginia. Marthasville, North Dakota. Wydeker, Ohio. Fairview, Illinois. And Cambridge, Minnesota.

The last one had been the most perplexing, and also represented the smallest pile. All that sat in that stack was the Polaroid shot that she had emailed to them and a copy of the news article about a young boy drowning after falling through the ice while skating. Jeremy Matheson, 14 years old. It was from 10 years ago. The log sheet had only one date written down, December 14, 1995, so they couldn't be sure if she had gone back there to investigate anything or not. Although, really, why would she? She knew what happened, they all did. They were there after all.

They had been in Minnesota for only about six weeks, just long enough to get to know some of the townspeople. There were very few families there at the time, so many had left the small cold city for the winter, but the Mathesons stuck around every year. It was love at first sight for Tessa when Jeremy, the older of the two brothers, showed up at her door their second day there. He was fourteen. He was tall, taller than her despite the recent spurt that sent her two inches ahead of Sam. And he had a brilliant, slightly crooked smile. She was a goner. Tessa had always been a bit of a tomboy, as she would have to be growing up as she did, living with three men, training like a soldier. So it was a surprise even to her when she became so infatuated with Jeremy that she started to do her hair in the mornings, wear nicer clothes, and giggle inadvertently at any ridiculous joke he made. Dean harassed her endlessly of course, and she could hardly blame him, she hated herself for being such a _girl_ around him, following him like a lost little puppy, but she just couldn't help it. And really, Jeremy didn't seem to mind. Sam and the younger Matheson, Ryan, who was also 12, were naturally appalled, but as long as Jeremy said she could tag along, she didn't care.

The day of the accident it was rather warm, a breezy 35 degrees as opposed to the blustery 10 it had been just the day before, and they decided to go out even though Dean had told them no. He didn't want to baby-sit the group as John so often demanded he do, so before anyone even said anything that morning about hitting the lake, he informed them that everyone was staying in today. And of course this was his prerogative as he was in charge when Dad was away, and their father was going to be gone for at least another day yet while hunting up north. But both Sam and Tessa were too stubborn to take orders from their brother, so they waited until he slipped on his head phones, Metallica blaring, as he closed his eyes for a nap, and they snuck out.

Once at the lake Tessa was informed that she wouldn't be allowed to play today, not since Ron and Billy and Jake had all come out to play. They needed an even number and since she was the girl, well, she had to sit it out. Instead of objecting, or running home and crying as she was certain they'd wanted her to do, she simply sat back and watched. The game went on for about a half an hour before Ryan wildly hit the puck out into the middle of the lake, where the ice was considerably thinner. _You go, Tessa, _they had encouraged. _You're lighter than us._ Jeremy stood up for her, said if they wouldn't let her play she shouldn't have to go fetch for them. He told Ryan to get it himself, but Ryan who was rather overweight and probably couldn't have done it even if he wanted to, told him to fuck off. Then he turned back to Tessa and proceeded to call her a chicken. So she did the only thing a girl in her position could do. She set off to prove herself to the boy she loved, while also sticking it to the one she hated.

Jeremy followed, told her to be careful, take it slow, listen for any cracking. She did all that, moving even slower than necessary just to prolong her time alone with him. She made it out to the middle, grabbed the puck and started back, watching while Jeremy turned around and yelled back at his brother _Ha! Shove it, jerk off!_ He was about to say something else, something to her as she approached him, but before he could the ice under his feet gave way and he splashed into the dark water beneath. She was just close enough at the time for him to grab on as he fell, but instead of keeping himself from going under he pulled her in right along with him.

They were lost under the ice, carried away by the lazy current, and none of the boys could find them. Ryan ran home and got his parents. Sam ran home and got Dean. And by the time they all had arrived, one of the boys had spotted Jeremy. They broke the ice around where he was and hauled him up. Dean performed CPR until the paramedics arrived, which was close to twenty minutes, while the others continued the search. Finally one of the police officers who had just pulled up spotted her bright blue coat under the ice near the southern shore. She had been under close to an hour.

Jeremy lingered on life support for just over two days before his body gave out. Tessa woke from her coma just as it happened. But no one discussed that little coincidence, no one was allowed to. Sam wondered about it out loud at one point and was quickly told by his father to never mention it again. It didn't matter. It didn't mean anything. And if Tessa knew about it, it would only make her feel guilty. Because really, she was under twice as long as him, her body temperature had dropped twice as low. And while things were said to be touch and go with him, the doctors had informed Tessa's family that there was no hope where she was concerned. He never should have died. That was her fate.

But this was all a long time ago, and the Winchesters had come to accept that despite the tragedy their family had endured, they had a miracle in their past as well. And they moved on, put in all behind them. Until now. Now it seemed that so much of their past was coming back to haunt to them, even their mother, who, for the first time in over twenty years, almost seemed to be in the room with them. After all, this was seemingly all about her, or her death at any rate.

But Sam and Dean tried to set that aside. They worked to move through all the emotion that could so easily have stunted their progress and tried instead to look at everything logically. Even the news articles about their own house burning down, their mother trapped inside. They moved through all of the odd snippets from places across the nation where the events that took place seemed eerily reminiscent of those they encountered themselves. They read and read and read, scoured every page until finally their eyes gave and they each fell into an awkward slumber, one perched at the table, newsprint staining his face as he slept. The other curled into a tight ball on the floor, his feet absently kicking at papers as he twitched.

And like this they both slept, lured by exhaustion into a rest so deep that that neither heard the old lock jiggle as it was fiddled with from the outside, effectively picked so as to release the deadbolt. Nor did they hear the knob turn or the creek of the door as it was slowly pushed open.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Author Note: Sorry it took so long to update, and I know this one is a little shorter than the others, but I'll try to have the next chap up soon, maybe even tonight. Maybe. Of course I should point out that when I get lots of reviews it inspires me more and helps me to getchaps up quicker. Hint hint. By the way, I only have a loose idea of where this is going, so if you have any suggestions or anything, or if there's more or less of something you want to see, whatever, let me know. Until then...on with the story!

"Ow!" Dean jumps up, his hand instinctively flying to the back of his head where a new dull throb has developed. It takes him only a fraction of a second to regain his senses, shake off the fog of sleep and turn quickly to see what exactly it was that hit him. Upon turning though he sees something that causes the adrenaline to fade from his veins, and all the color to leave his face.

"Dad?" Sam too is now standing, just behind Dean. Both men face their father and though they naturally recognize him, the look on his face is foreign to them. Anger, rage…something else too.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" he spits out at them. Neither answer, they simply stand in shock. John bends down and picks up the cell phone he recently flung at his son's head, and sets it back on the table where he found it. When he looks back at them his face is somewhat softened, the fury fading despite his desire to keep it burning. They shouldn't be here. What were they doing? What the hell did they think they were doing? Could none of his children do as they're told? Oh, he was angry, but there was something else he was feeling as well. Despite all of that a huge part of him was thankful to be looking into his sons' faces right now. He had missed them so.

"Dad?" Sam says again absently, and John glances at him, meets his eyes and lunges for him. Tears roll lazily down his cheeks as he embraces his son, reaching out for Dean as well and pulling him into the group hug. They found their father, or he found them. And so for a moment, one long yet seemingly fleeting moment, they allow themselves to feel relief, and more importantly, to feel his presence.

"What are you doing here?" John asks again, gruffly, as he pushes away from the tangle of arms. He wipes the tears from his face and Sam and Dean watch as anger again fills his features.

"Us?" Sam says, coming into some anger of his own. "What are you doing here?" He doesn't even attempt to mask the rage and bitterness in his voice. This man had alluded them for months, told them next to nothing about where he was, what he was doing, whether or not he was all right. And now that he was here, standing in front of him safe and sound, or alive and uninjured at least, he couldn't help but hate him for putting them through all of that fear and worry. Not to mention the fact that he was hiding things from them and had been all along.

"Sam," Dean utters softly, a calming warning for his brother. Sam takes heed and turns so that he doesn't say anything more. Dean turns to his father. "Tessa was here," he says simply.

"Yeah, I know that. What – "

"She's missing. I guess. She's not here."

"I know that," John says again, clearly annoyed.

"We got a couple of weird emails from her and couldn't get a hold of her. So we tracked her down…to see if everything was okay."

"You boys are really developing a penchant for that, huh?" he says with a scoff.

Sam turns quickly, his eyes burning into his father's as he speaks. "She needs our help. Not everyone can _develop a penchant_ for abandoning their family."

"What did you say to me?"

"Some of us actually want to be there for the people we love instead running the opposite direction."

"What – "

"Sam," Dean chimes in, the warning more forceful this time. But it does no good as both men ignore him and continue to berate each other. Their voices get louder as each tries to talk over the other.

"How dare you – "

"We get nothing for months – "

"You don't the first thing about – "

"And then you call and say…surprise! Nothing!"

"I had to stay away – "

"Nothing about where you are or…and this thing about a demon…"

"I had to keep you safe!"

"And you say you know, that's what did it, and you'll take care of it!"

"And I will! It's not you concern!"

"It killed my mother! It killed my girlfriend!"

"It's not safe! Damn it, why won't you listen to me!"

"Maybe because all you ever seem to do is lie!" _Smack!_ The sound of Sam's head banging into the wall reverberates throughout the room and Dean jumps into action, trying to maneuver himself in between the two men as he works to loosen John's grip on Sam's collar. "What are you gonna do?" he asks through clenched teeth. "Hit me? Hit me!"

"Dad!" Dean screams as he continues to work the fabric of Sam's shirt out of his grasp.

"Selfish little punk," John spews. "It's all about you, isn't it?"

"I'm not the selfish one, you bastard."

"Hey!" Dean shoves his father, hard, and he loses his balance, bringing Sam down with him. He finally lets go of his shirt and they both look up at Dean from the floor, still fuming. "You're both fucking selfish!" he says jumping over his brother's leg and into the bathroom where he reaches down and grabs the towel soiled with Tessa's dried blood. He throws it down in between them, intent on making his point clear. "This isn't about either of you! That," he says, pointing at the towel, "is why we're here."

All three of them remain still, stuck in place for a number of minutes while they work things through in their minds, calm themselves down. Work to do, can't be emotional when there's work to do. Each of them think about this as they steady their breathing. John rises slowly and asks, "How much do you know?"

"Not enough," Sam says, anger still clearly evident in his voice. He gets up and moves to the bed, takes a seat and forces himself to push the emotion away. He takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh. "We know she was on to something, about Mom maybe. And we know that someone or something was on to her."

John sits down on the bed, though careful not to be too close to Sam. "I told her to stop," he mumbles under his breath. Then more clearly, "She never listens."

"How'd you know she was here?" Dean asks, still leaning up against the doorjamb.

He takes a moment before answering, drops his face into his hands and moves slowly, running his fingers through his hair, pulling at it as he goes. He only wanted to keep them safe. That's why he didn't say anything. He just wanted his children to be safe. But now… "Baz told me."

There's silence as Sam and Dean exchange confused looks. They wait for their father to go on, but he doesn't, so Sam prompts him. "And Baz is…?

He looks up at his son, desperation in his eyes. _Don't make me say it. Don't make me tell you this,_ the look says. He turns away before speaking. "He's an old friend, someone who's helped me out before, over the years."

"And Tessa knew him?"

"I've never heard of him," Dean says. He thought he knew all of his dad's contacts. Why wouldn't he share this one?

"I haven't talked to him in years," he says, as though that might explain why his sons knew nothing about him. "I don't know how she found out. I think it was almost an accident, just sort of stumbled across him. But that's why I told her not to get involved."

"Involved in what?" Sam asks. "_Is_ this about mom? About Jess?"

"You know I never wanted any of you to get caught up in all of this. I knew from the beginning that it would be too dangerous. You're mother wouldn't have wanted it either; she'd want you safe."

Sam lets out an indignant snort. "She probably wouldn't have wanted us to put ourselves in danger fighting evil then either, now would she? But that never stopped you."

"No, it didn't," he says rather defeatedly. It's not the response Sam expected, no hint of anger or defensiveness. "I thought if you knew what was out there, if you knew how to protect yourselves, you'd be safe. I just wanted you to be safe."

"You said that already," Dean chimes in. "What about Tessa?"

"Oh," he says sighing, "you know your sister. She gets an idea in her head and runs with it. I think…I told her not to worry about it, not to look into Mary's death. At all. But I think, maybe because…I don't know…she felt like she had to."

"And she found something?"

"She found a lot of somethings."

"Things you already knew, or thing she told you about?"

"Both."

"Why did she leave?" Dean asks, suddenly changing the subject. "Why did she take off last year?"

"Because I told her to stop. She was getting too close and I told her to stop and she refused."

"So you let her leave?"

"What was I supposed do, Dean?"

"I don't know, not let her."

"I can't control her. I couldn't control Sam."

"You could have told me what was happening, what she was doing. I could have kept a closer eye on her…"

"I kept tabs on her, followed her sometimes even."

Sam shifts and turns to his father. "You two still talked? Did she tell you about what she found out?"

"Not at first. Then she spotted me in Mississippi. Like I said, I can't control her. I guess I figured if she was going to do this thing, well, I shouldn't let her do it alone. We compared notes. I wanted her to stay strictly on the research end, I'd do the actual investigating. But…"

"You two were working together," Dean says sneering. "Unbelievable. This whole time, you're out there and you don't tell me a damn thing, where you are, what you're doing. But _her_? I'm supposed to be your second in command. _Me_ not her."

"This isn't the military, Dean."

"Bullshit! You raised us like that, always giving orders, orders that _I_ always followed."

"So what, you're angry I didn't inform you of my mission," he says mockingly. "Consider it classified. Top secret covert operations."

Dean crosses his arms over his chest, shakes his head back and forth as a smile plays on his lips, an _unbefuckinglievable_ smirk. And he tries to hold back the tears that sting at the back of his eyes. Betrayal. Lies. Sneaky bastards.

"Do you know where she is?" Sam asks as he tries to ignore his brother's plight, ignore the fact that he feels the same thing.

"No. Not now."

"But you talked to her? She called you when you were in Sacramento, right?"

John gives him a confused look. "No," he says slowly. "I haven't talked to her in weeks, not since she found out…" he stops short, lets his words trail off and hopes they don't notice.

"Found out what?" Sam asks excitedly. "Found out about the demon, the thing that killed them?"

"No," John says. "No, something else."

"What?"

He refuses to look at either of his sons as he speaks. "She found Baz…and he told her."

"Told her what, Dad?"

"He told her about what I did. Ten years ago. He told her what I did when she died, to bring her back. And he told her what I hoped was only me being paranoid. But it wasn't. It's all a part of the same thing. What I did. What happened to you mother." He pauses briefly and turns to look Sam in the eyes. "What happened to Jessica." He drops his head, shaking it back and forth and feels tears collect in his eyes once again. "It was me, Sammy. I'm so sorry. It was all me."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Author's Note: Two in one day, yay! And I didn't think it could be done. Anywho, this is a flashback, obviously, so you'll just have to wait for more to be explained. I'll try to update again sometime this week, but it all depends on how often I get called into work. Until then, review, review, review!

Cambridge, Minnesota - December 1995

"Dean!" He calls out his name as soon as he can make out his form. Down at the end of the hallway, even with his back turned and a heavy hospital blanket thrown over his shoulders, his son is easily recognizable. He turns when John calls his name and waits as his father races toward him.

"Dad!" Before he can reach Dean, Sam jumps into his path, throwing his arms around him. John squeezes him tight, less as a reassuring fatherly act and more as a means to steady himself so that he doesn't lose his balance completely. He pulls the boy off of him and looks him in the eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asks, his fingers trembling as they grip his son's shoulders. Sam nods and wipes the back of his hand over his face. He knows how his father feels about crying and he's not about to let him see what a baby he's been.

"Mr. Winchester?" He looks up and sees that the man Dean was talking to, the one standing next to him now, is a police officer, and he is immediately overcome with the fear that they've been found out, caught, and he's here now to arrest to him for credit fraud or impersonating a federal agent or some other such thing. But the officer doesn't look angry, only sad. And he makes no attempt to read him his rights or cuff him, so it must be something else.

"What happened?" he asks, still out of breath from running all the way from the far off parking garage. "What's going on?" No one had told him anything, not really. The message was relayed to him from Walt, the guy who owned the property he'd been _hunting_ on. This was the second job he had done for Walt, who told him flat out that no matter what kind of problems he'd run into he would never give up his land, even if part of it used to be sacred Indian ground. Dean had his number just in case, for an absolute emergency only. And John figured this must be one since he was told to come to the hospital. That's all Walt had said, _Dean called, said it was an emergency, meet him at Mercy Hospital._

"Mr. Winchester," the officer repeats. "You're daughter was in an accident, out at Hyde Lake."

"What kind of accident?" he asks calmly, finally catching his breath. He expects him to say something trivial. She fell and broke her arm. She got hit with a hockey puck, few stitches. She sprained her ankle, no big deal really.

"She was skating on the lake when she and another boy fell through."

"Fell through," he says, the words not making any sense from either of their mouths.

"Fell through the ice."

"Okay," he says simply as though waiting for some sort of punch line.

"She was under for a pretty long time."

"Under water."

"Yes."

"She's alive, Dad," Sam says as he sidles closer to his father's side. John looks down at him and sees the look of utter sincerity on his face. It's a look so mature that seeing his son wearing it strikes a cord of fear in his heart. _She's alive._ What a bizarre thing to say. Of course she's alive, what else would she be?

"As I understand it," the officer continues, "they're working to bring her body temperature up right now. Hypothermia. I'm sure the doctor will be out to speak with you soon. In fact, I should go let them know that you're here." He turns and walks away, leaving the Winchesters alone in the long quiet hallway.

John looks up at Dean, a shivering mess standing before him. "Did you fall in too?" he asks, noticing the wet hair, the lips tinged with blue. He shakes his head no.

"He pulled Jeremy out," Sam says. "Saved his life."

"Okay," he says again as he absently pats Dean on the arm. "Okay." He takes a moment to collect his thoughts and then reaches into his pocket, pulls out his keys and presses them into his son's hand. "You should get changed. Go home and get warmed up before you catch pneumonia."

Dean's jaw drops, stopping his teeth from chattering, and he stares at his father incredulously. "I'm not leaving," he says slowly, as if he were talking to a child, someone who, for whatever reason, was unable to grasp the most simple concepts.

"You're freezing, look at you. You need to get home and change. Take you're brother with you."

"Dad," he protests.

"This is not a debate, Dean. It's not even a discussion. I told you to take your brother home, that's an order."

"But Tessa…"

"Don't worry about your sister, she's fine."

Dean's expression changes, no longer disbelieving. He understands. He understands that his father _does not_ understand. His moves his head side to side as he speaks, "No, Dad. She's not fine."

It is another hour before John finally manages to get his sons to return to their little rented house. Dean refused to go until he saw Tessa, so they let him in, though only briefly. Sam was told he was too young, you have to be at least 16 to visit someone in the ICU. He scoffed and mumbled under his breath how stupid it was. If someone his same age could be admitted there then surely he should be allowed in just to visit. Once they left, John sat in the waiting room in silence. A nurse offered him coffee, he declined. Another visitor asked him if wanted a cigarette, he said no. Someone came along and turned on the TV, though they only sat and watched it for a minute, but he couldn't concentrate on any bit of the program playing. So he simply sat and waited until the doctor returned and asked him to follow him to his office.

Once there he explained to John that when Tessa's temperature had returned to normal, the rest of her vitals should have followed suit. But they didn't. Her blood pressure was still dangerously low. Her heart rate was unsteady and she was still not able to breathe on her own. He explained that they had run a number of different tests, all the required ones, and the results all pointed to the same thing. No response to external stimuli. No response to pain. EEG virtually flat lined. She was brain dead.

"Do you understand what that means, Mr. Winchester?" the doctor asks. John does not respond. The doctor leans back in his chair and lets out a long breath. "What that means is that your daughter is only being kept alive by machines. Her brain is no longer functioning and soon the rest of her won't be either. It's only a matter of time before her organ systems begin to fail. Days, a week at the most. Do you understand?"

He nods his head yes.

"If you're comfortable, I would like to discuss organ donation with you. That decision of course would have to be made soon – "

"No," he blurts out, then more calmly, "Not yet, no."

"Okay, then, whenever you're ready." He rises from behind his desk and waits for John to stand as well. He pats him on the back as they start through the door. "I'm very sorry," he says in a voice that reeks of practiced sincerity, and he leaves him standing alone outside a stranger's office in a strange hospital hallway.

Slowly he makes his way back to the pediatric ICU and his daughter's tiny room. And he sits in the horribly uncomfortable wooden chair beside her bed. And he takes her hand in his, feels how cold her skin has become and bends down to breathe on it, huff his hot breath onto her flesh and he rubs it in. But her hand doesn't warm, and it doesn't move. And all that he can hear as he sits by his daughter's side is the piercing _beep beep beep_ of the heart monitor and the steady _whoosh_ of the ventilator. And he tries to think back, to remember what her breathing sounded like all those years ago, when she was still a baby lying in a crib not two feet away from her brother. He would stand and watch them both, with his arm draped around his wife's waist. He would stand there in the dim light and stare at his babies' chests as they steadily rose and fell, every breath in unison. He hadn't done that in a long time, taken the time to watch his children sleep, taken the opportunity to thank God for every breath he saw them take. He hadn't thanked God for anything in fact, not since Mary died, and he now regretted it. Now, as he sits and listens to the machines surrounding his little girl, he realizes just how much he had taken for granted over the last several years. He realizes how much he wants to hear her breathe. And he cries.

It's not until he senses a presence in the room with him that he looks up, half expecting to see some sort of spirit, half expecting to see some young nurse. What he finds instead is a priest, a young man standing straight and tall in his dark suit and white collar. "Go away," he says tersely, not even wanting to be polite yet alone gregarious. "We don't want any," he says, smiling to himself at his oh so clever comment.

"Are you sure about that?" the priest asks.

John stares coldly at him. "Yes."

"Such hostility. Let me guess, you're one of those people who blames God for everything wrong in their lives."

"No. In fact, I don't. I can't very well blame God for the things that go wrong in my life if he's not even in my life at all, now can I?"

The priest laughs slightly and moves further into the room. "John, really. All of the things you see and you can't believe in God?"

"How do you know my name?" he asks, sitting upright.

"There's a theme that's present in nearly every faith, every field of thought. Where's there's good there's also bad. And vice versa. Yet you never let yourself see the good through the bad, do you?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Where's the good here?"

"Maybe you just have to work a little harder to see it."

"What? Who are you?" he says angrily.

"I'm someone who can help."

"I don't want your help, _father_."

He laughs again and shoots John a smirk. "You can call me Baz. Just don't ask me what it stands for because I won't tell you." John turns away in disgust. Why won't this person just leave already? The priest moves closer and stands on the opposite side of Tessa's bed. "I know what happened to your wife," he says, barely above a whisper. "It was horrible, just horrible."

John glares up at him. "What do you know?" he asks, both rage and curiosity filling his words.

"I know that it was evil. And I know that you think that evil still plagues your family. That's really why you're always on the move. The excuse is that you're helping others, taking on any bad thing you can find so that the world will be a better place. But the truth is you're just running. You're so scared that the bad things in life will catch up to you once again."

"Was I wrong?" he asks, fresh tears leaking from his eyes. He looks down at his little girl and back up at Baz and asks again, "Was I wrong?"

"This is not evil, John. This is life."

"No." He shakes his head sternly. "No, _this_ is not life."

"You're right, it's death, which just happens to be a part of life. A natural, not at all unusual or evil part of life."

"She is twelve years old."

"I know." He pauses, looks away and when he speaks again it is in a very different tone, one of sadness and longing. "My mother has lost many children. She allowed it to happen, that's true, but it pained her just the same."

"Who is your mother?" John asks, suddenly deeply curious. This is not merely some hospital chaplain, that much he knew once the man used his name. But it was more than that, he had a feeling that this man may not even be a man at all.

"She let her pain turn into anger," he says, ignoring the question. "And now she takes it out on others. She makes them suffer, but it makes no difference. Her children are still dead, and more die each day and they always will. And the people she takes her anger out on, people like you…they don't deserve it of course. It's horrible, just horrible."

John sits wide-eyed. He knows that what's being said is important, he knows that this person has answers to so many of questions. But he can't think of what questions to ask him. He can't get his mind to slow down enough for him to even craft the words. So he is left speechless.

"I wish I could take back those awful things my mother does, I do. But I can't. I wish I could fix them." He looks John in the eyes. "I'm not like her. I'm not like so many of my siblings either. I'm not."

"I believe you," he says, though he's not sure why. He can't even really understand what this…this…Baz is telling him. But as soon as the words come out he knows it's true, he does believe him.

"I _can_ make it up to you. I shouldn't, I'm not supposed to, no one is. What's done is done. But…it never should have been done, you see?"

"What can you do?" he asks urgently.

Baz looks down at Tessa and touches her forehead, softly runs his fingers down the length of her face. "She's beautiful," he says, seemingly lost in thought. "I should have let things be." He shakes his head and looks back at John. "It really isn't fair, is it?"

"No," he says, choking on the word as though it's a sob.

"No, it really isn't," he says again.

"What can you do?" John repeats anxiously.

"You have to understand – "

"I don't care. I don't care who you are, or why you're here. Or even what you know. If you can…fix her, if you can bring her back…then I don't care about the rest."

"There would be consequences. Do you care about those, John?"

He is silent for a moment as he thinks, or tries to anyway. But the only thought that flows through his mind is the same one he had before, _I want to hear my daughter breathe_. "My children are all I have, they're it." He looks at Tessa's face, her pale skin, her long eyelashes. He lets his index finger twirl a section of her hair, wrapping it around itself until it disappears into the tangle of curls. "I can't lose her. After Mary…I can't lose my daughter too. My children…"

Baz places his hand over John's and for a moment he is surprised at how real it feels. This is no spirit, his hand is warm, he is flesh and blood. "I can help," he says simply, and he moves his hand down to Tessa's, squeezes it as he leans over and places a kiss above her brow. When he straightens up again he smiles contentedly at John before turning and leaving.

"Wait," he starts, but finds himself stopping suddenly, distracted by the sight of his daughter's fluttering eyelids.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Author's Note: An update in the middle of the week...how excited you must be! Actually this is a little shorter, but, oh well. Thanks for the reviews, I treasure them all, keep 'em coming!

"So who was he? Or…what?" Sam asks, breaking the silence that had lingered since the end of his father's story. The three men remain in the same seats, same position even, they've been in for the half an hour it took for John to relay the details of his first meeting with the mysterious Baz.

"I didn't know then," he says, ducking his head. He had managed to make eye contact precisely two times since he began his spiel, and his relative avoidance had not gone unnoticed.

"But you know now," Dean says, more a statement than a question.

"I couldn't find him. I searched, but for the longest time I couldn't find any trace of him. Then we sort of…ran into each other a few years back."

Dean shifts impatiently in his seat, waiting for his father to go on. "And?" he says rather rudely when he does not.

John looks over at him, notices his stiff posture, arms folded tightly together, anger and frustration creasing his forehead. There's no way out. They have to know, have to be told, not only because he's sort of painted himself into a corner by sharing bits and pieces of the story already, but also because he'll likely need their help in finding Tessa. "There was a mysterious death up in Pennsylvania. This was…four years ago? Five maybe. You," he turns to Sam, "had just started getting serious about college, applying for scholarships and things."

"So it was right before you lost it and threatened to disown me if I left?" he asks snidely.

John looks away, tries to ignore the comment as he continues. "I went there on my own, didn't want you involved."

"There's a shock," Sam mutters under his breath.

"Damn it, Sam! Do you want to hear this or not?"

"Sorry," he says, not entirely convincingly.

"Anyway, I didn't want you to know about it because I thought it might be related to your mother, her death." He takes a deep breath, lets out a long sigh. "There was a fire. I only heard about it a year or so after it actually happened. Picked it up because of this article about the man convicted of murder, arson and murder. It was her husband. The case was circumstantial at best, but they had police records that pointed to a history of abuse in the home, so…"

"Wait," Sam says, his brow furrowing. "Hang on." He gets up and goes over to the stacks of papers sitting on the table next to Dean and picks up a pile, hands it to his father. "Archer."

John takes the papers from him and flips through them briefly. "Yeah," he says as he continues to investigate. "Yeah, that's the article. I gave this to her, and this," he indicates another news clipping, older, from the time of the fire itself. "That's the house," he says pulling out another sheet, this one with an authentic looking MLS listing. He reads it, "partially renovated following fire, no indication of smoke damage throughout, not even in upstairs bedroom where fire occurred, which would make excellent nursery. House checked and scanned, top to bottom, comes up clean." He stops and smiles. "What is this?"

"She got creative. Some of this stuff is just notes, or highlighted texts, but a lot of it is like that, hidden messages."

He chuckles, impressed by his daughter's ingenuity. "I told her to be careful, not to let anyone know about what she was doing." He looks up at Sam who is still standing, looming above him. "Never know who might be watching." He shakes his head and grins again. "This is a little more than I expected though. Impressive."

"Actually," Dean chimes in, "it's a pain in the ass." He leans toward his father, reaching for the papers and pulls them back so he too can have a better look. "So you didn't want us to know about this stuff, but you gave her these articles?" he asks accusingly.

"Only later, only once she was already in so deep that I figured I couldn't really keep it from her anymore anyway."

"So," Sam says as he reclaims his seat next to his father on the bed, "you saw Baz there?"

"Yeah. I drove up after I read that article, the one where he says that he didn't kill his wife, someone or something else did. And it held her to the ceiling and lit her on fire."

"Right," Dean says, reading over the article as his father speaks. "And that's why he won his appeal and was sent to the state psych hospital instead of prison."

"Yep. So I went there to investigate, though really there wasn't much investigating to do. I mean someone new lived in the house, which had already been repaired. No one else saw anything and neither of them had any family for me to talk to. It was pretty much a dead end. Then I found the kid."

"What kid?"

"The couple had a baby, about eight months old at the time. She died in his nursery."

"Well," says Dean, "that's ironic."

"That's why I wanted to see if I could find him."

"And?"

"And I was able to get some information. He was adopted by a family in Pittsburgh. I couldn't get their names or any details really. I was going to look into it further, but…I got the name of the social worker who had taken him in that night, and ultimately found him a home. His name was Baz Smith."

"Baz…Smith?"

"Don't ask. Anyway, the agency he supposedly worked for had no record of him, but I have my ways you know."

"So you tracked him down."

"Almost. I got close, but before I could find him, he found me. Just walked into the diner I was eating in and sat down in my booth, just like that, like we were old friends or something."

"You know, I gotta tell ya," Dean says as he rises and starts to pace, his impatience getting the better of him. "This little story is really interesting and all, but I kind of only care about one thing. Who the hell is this guy?"

"Funny you should put it that way," John says smirking.

"Why is that?"

He takes a deep breath and blurts out, "He's not a guy, he's a demon."

There is dead silence for a moment as both of the brothers stare, mouths agape, at their father. Then Dean speaks. "Come again."

"Well, technically he's a guy, a real human man. Or he was anyway. Baz sort of…possessed him, this…person. He said he's maintained the same body for almost twenty years, said that was a record for him." Sam and Dean continue to stare at him as he speaks, their minds clearly _trying_ to work as fast as possible to grasp what he's saying. But this is all pretty out there, even for them. "Demons can't take human form," he says in an attempt to explain everything to his sons. "They aren't made of the same elements as we are. We can't see them or hear them, or perceive them at all really when they're in their natural state."

"O-kay," Dean says, his forehead a wrinkled mess of confusion.

"That can benefit them. They can move in and out of our world without us even knowing. Fire and air, that's what they're made out of, and because of that they can manipulate it, move through it. Earth and water, not so much. So if a demon manages to possess someone, which apparently takes a lot of practice, they can not only be perceived by us, but can hide from their own kind."

"What, like demons can't…sense other demons?" Sam asks.

"There are ways. But it's possible to hide since they can't maneuver through flesh in the same ways, too much of the elements they're not borne of."

"How do we not know this?" asks Dean, who begins his quick-stepped pacing again. "Shouldn't we know this? I mean I don't remember reading about it or anything."

"I do," says Sam. "I did." He turns and points his thumb behind him to indicate the piles of books still lined against the wall. "Kabalistic theories."

"Certain ones anyway," John says as he watches his eldest son wear a hole in the carpet. "Dean, enough. You're making me dizzy." He stops pacing and returns obediently to his chair.

"So," Sam continues, "Baz is a demon who possessed…some guy, twenty years ago, and…wait, is he hiding? From others…like him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he's interfered with certain events. He's made them angry."

Dean sits at the table and plays with a pen, clicks it in and out, in and out. "He's been a bad, bad demon," he mocks.

"He made a deal with the wrong side," John says.

"Sounds familiar," retorts Dean.

His father looks at him, studies his posture, his behavior. He knows what he's thinking, what he meant by that, and he's right. Of course John never should have done what he did, dealt with Baz, especially without knowing all the facts, like who and what he was. But he had no choice. "What should I have done, Dean? Let her die?"

A shadow passes over his face and he inhales sharply, as though the words themselves jabbed him. No, of course not. Of course he shouldn't have let her die. But that's just selfishness talking. He loved his sister, losing her would have been torture. He _loves_ his sister, and losing her _is_ torture. But if it was meant to be, if that was her fate… "I don't know," he says softly, clicking the pen one final time before letting it fall to the table.

"Truthfully," John says, his face once again aimed at the floor, tucked away from view, "I don't either." Sam rises and heads towards the bathroom causing him to look up. "Sam?" he asks, and waits for his son to turn to him. When he does, he can see how deflated the young man is. Sure Dean loves his sister, and of course John loves his daughter, both of them feel a bond, a connection, with her. But Sam is her twin. They were created together, born together, and raised together. And there's no doubt in his mind that the idea of not dying together as well, the thought of having to live a life knowing that a part of him is missing, half of his being is gone, causes his heart to ache.

"I'm going to take a shower," he says simply as he closes the bathroom door behind him.

He tries to think of nothing, turns off his mind as he turns on the water. He tries to wipe the slate clean and forget, at least for the next 15 minutes or so, about everything he's learned over the last couple of days. He tries to close his eyes and not see her face, not imagine it as it was ten years ago. Not picture it stuck that way forever, halted in time, like it should have been. He tries.

He can hear his father and brother talking, muffled voices through the door, as he steps out of the shower. They're probably filling each other in. Dad's giving Dean a synopsis of everything he worked on with Tessa. Dean's telling Dad all about the research they've managed to decipher here. At least that's what he assumes is going on, but he refuses to listen too carefully. He can stay hidden in the bathroom another five minutes tops before they start pounding on the door, so he might as well use this time doing _anything_ other than focusing on the current job, which just happens to be a little too personal. Sometimes a person just needs to step back and take a breather, and Sam's certain that's the case now. So…five more minutes. Five more minutes alone. Five more minutes soaking up the steam.

He leans up against the tiled wall, feeling the coolness of it creep into his skin, and he runs his fingers through his wet hair. _I need a comb_, he thinks, _and a haircut_. Then he turns to the mirror and leans towards it, preparing to wipe away the steam so he can see if he looks as awful as he feels. But he stops short, takes a step back, and feels his jaw drop. On the mirror, outlined in steam, there is a single word. MEG.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Author's Note: Rather short, but to the point. I'll have more when I have more. Now tell me what you think!

Three siblings sharing one bathroom was the worst. The _worst_. Sure, occasionally only two of them would have to share, it all depended on the availability of cheap rooms at whatever motel they ended up at. But even that was rough. It didn't help that all three kids, especially once they hit their teenage years, were fairly vain. Dean loved his hair. He'd spend at least twenty minutes a day working to get that carelessly disheveled look. He couldn't help it though, it took time to craft it just right, not so messy that it looks unkempt, no so neat that it seems as though he really cared. And Sam had his grooming issues as well of course. There was a system to everything he did, brushing his teeth, flossing, mouthwash. His skin started to breakout, though barely, when he hit fifteen, so an intricate skin care regimen began as well. And the boy did love his long showers, still does.

But Tessa was the absolute worst. Like her twin, she'd spend extra time luxuriating in the steam of a super hot shower. Like her older brother, she'd obsess over her hair. And once the fiasco of puberty had been overcome, another issue arose, makeup. So it was more than fair to say that she monopolized the majority of bathroom time. Even John knew this, and was irritated by it if for no other reason than the boys were constantly complaining and begging to use his bathroom. And there were the occasional late starts, which to a former Marine were entirely unacceptable. But none of them were ever able to break her of her habit.

Tessa, for her part, became more than annoyed with her family's constant beratment, and took out her anger in a rather quiet and unassuming way. She left nasty little messages on the mirror. Before leaving the bathroom, after having been in there so long that all of the steam from her shower had already dissipated, she would lick her finger and use it to write in large print something such as, DEAN IS A DORK or SAMMY, THE AMAZING BEANPOLE BOY! Occasionally, if they really made her mad, banging away on the door so loudly that she could hear them over the hairdryer even, she would leave more hostile messages, SHITHEAD or GO FUCK YOURSELF were among them. And then there were the long stories and sayings that she put up only so that she would take up more time in the bathroom, thus further enraging them. YOU SNORED IN THE CAR TODAY, ALL DAY. COULDN"T SLEEP AT ALL. HOW CAN YOU EVEN SLEEP THROUGH THAT RACKET? SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU. SHOULD HAVE IT CHECKED OUT. That was one Sam found, was met with when he finally dragged himself out of the shower and into the steam-filled bathroom. And then he too, once the steam had disappeared, wrote an invisible message back to her that she would find, and likely yell at him about, the following morning. That was how it was when they were on the road together, back when they were still a family, dysfunction and all.

It had been years since he had seen anything written to him on a mirror, though there were several times when he was away that he would step out of the shower and expect to see some sort of insult or inane reminder, DON'T FORGET TO FLUSH, for example. And his first thought when he sees MEG plain as day scrawled over the glass is that his mind is playing tricks on him. But it isn't.

MEG. MEG. He reads it over and over again, his mind racing to figure out what this code could possibly mean. Does it stand for something? Is it an anagram? Or the first three letters of something, a book or article sitting in the other room? Or maybe it's just what it looks like, a name. But who? Did they know anyone named Meg? He couldn't remember anybody. In fact the only person named Meg he had ever known was Meg Ryan, not that he actually knew her.

And that girl. That girl he ran into just a week ago, the hitchhiker. Meg.

He dresses quickly, an aching feeling growing in the pit of stomach, one of both excitement and fear, one that leads him to believe that he's on to something. He rushes out of the bathroom, remaining moisture collecting on his shirt from where he neglected to towel off, and begins searching the room, wide-eyed and wild-looking. "Where's her phone?" he asks so quickly that the other men in the room are barely able to understand. They look at him oddly, raise their eyebrows in confusion. "Where is her phone?" he asks slowly, turning to them with feigned patience. Dean points to the table where the little pink flip phone had been placed after being bounced off of his head a couple of hours prior.

"What are you doing?" his father asks. But Sam ignores him.

"Were those calls incoming or outgoing?" he asks Dean as he scrolls through the numbers he had already looked up on the computer. Dean shrugs and Sam moves quickly, phone in hand, to the laptop, pushing his brother out of the way so that he can sit down in front of it. "Incoming," he says to himself.

"What are you doing?" John repeats as he makes his way over to Sam.

"Seeing something," he says absently, already focused on the information brought up on the screen. It's the official page of Greyhound. He scrolls through all the bus schedules and rosters and begins to hack into the site, searching for a passenger manifest. John and Dean both loom over him as he does so.

"What exactly are we looking for here, Sammy?" Dean asks.

"I don't see her name anywhere."

"Whose name?" inquires his father.

"She would have to use an ID just to buy a ticket, but…I don't see anything. Maybe she didn't get on."

"Who? Tessa?" Dean scoffs at the thought. "She wouldn't be caught dead on a bus."

"No," he says turning to his brother and shooting him an _are you stupid_ glare. "Not Tessa. Meg."

"Meg? Who the hell is Meg?"

"Look in the bathroom."

Dean scrunches his face in confusion and slowly moves toward the bathroom. He leans in the door, his feet remaining firmly planted just outside as though he's too nervous to go all the way in, worried there may be some sort of freakish surprise left behind by his brother. "Meg," he reads off the mirror, straightening up after realizing that Sam's odd request to duck into the bathroom was in fact not part of some bizarre joke. He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Sam, saying once again, "Who is Meg?"

"I don't know, not really. But I think…I think maybe I know her."

John places his hand on his son's shoulder, turning him towards him. "You don't know her, but you know her?"

"I don't know," he says, his voice heavy with frustration. "I met a girl named Meg. She's the only person I know with that name. But I don't know how Tess would…" He shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts. "It's just a feeling. I have them sometimes."

"Oh great," Dean sighs from the corner.

"Feeling?" John asks, ignoring his other son.

"Kind of like…I sort of…"

"He's gone psychic." If ever a look could kill, the one Sam shoots at his brother would be it. "What?" Dean says incredulously. "It's true."

"No, it's not." He looks at John briefly before turning away in…embarrassment? "I just sometimes…sense…things…sort of."

"Oh and dreams, don't forget about the dreams."

Sam glares at Dean. "And sometimes I have dreams too," he says slowly between clenched teeth. He turns away, back to his father who stands above him, looking less than surprised.

"So what's this feeling then, Sammy?" he asks soberly, locking eyes with his son.

"I saw the name on the mirror, and it took me a minute, but then I thought of her, this girl, and it was like…I know that's her."

"So who is she?" Dean says for the third time.

"I met her when I was on my way to California. She was hitchhiking and – "

"You hitchhiked to California!" John explodes.

"No! No. I just…I wanted to get there because I traced your call and it came from there so…but I turned around when I knew Dean needed my help."

"I didn't need your help. I had everything completely under control."

"Oh yeah, right, and getting filleted by a scarecrow god was all just part of your grand plan."

"I had a plan."

"Yeah, I just told you what it was."

"That was not the plan. I had a plan. It was a good plan too. Didn't need you."

"Sure."

"Boys!" John exclaims, slicing his hand through the air as though by doing so he can cut off their arguing. They look away from one another and at their father, see his stern face, and stop talking, but not before shooting petulant smirks in each other's direction. "Meg," he says calmly, reminding Sam of the task at hand.

"She said she was going to California too. I met up with her again at the bus station, which was kind of weird, but…we talked for awhile. Anyway, I left for Indiana and she, I thought caught a bus, but now I don't know."

"And you think she knew Tessa?"

"There's a call that came to her cell from a Sacramento area code. I thought it was you because it came just a day after you called us and I know you were there then. But you said you haven't talked to her."

"I haven't."

"Right. But somebody called her. And it was just before she came here."

"But you just said," Dean offers, "that you don't think that chick even got on the bus. So you don't know if she got to California or not, let alone _where_ in California. It's kind of a stretch."

"I told you, I had a feeling…_have_ a feeling."

"Okay," John says. "What exactly is that feeling telling you? Do you know how she's involved?"

Sam thinks for a moment. "No. I just know it's her. And Tess must have known that I would know. She must have known that I would somehow know who Meg was."

"Maybe Meg called her and told her she met you." Dean shakes his head back and forth. "But then she would have known who you really were, both of you."

"Did anything about this girl seem strange, Sam?" John asks.

"Like what?"

"Anything. Did she seem…"

"Like she knew who I was, or my family? No. She just seemed like a normal girl, I guess."

"You still think that? That she's just a _normal girl_?"

Before Sam can answer and give the obvious 'no', Dean reaches around him and grabs the pink cell phone off the table. He scrolls down to the last number in it and hits send. "It's ringing," he says simply, and they all wait in silence. Waiting, waiting, waiting. "Nothing," he says, flipping the phone shut finally. "Not even a voicemail or machine."

"I couldn't trace it either," Sam says. "We tried earlier."

John sits on the corner of the bed and rubs his hands along the top of his thighs, over and over again, until they finally come to rest on his knees. His knuckles turn white from the tight grip they've managed and he begins to gnaw at his lip. His sons watch and wait, knowing that he is entirely lost in thought. Knowing that when he gets this way, inevitably he always comes up with something, a plan, an idea. In the end, he always comes through.

But this time he doesn't get a chance to work out a plan. His concentration is broken when the little pink phone begins to ring.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Author's Note: I decided to add a little more of Tessa in, so here's a chapter from her POV.

The room is thick with smoke and she struggles, moving through it in a tequila-induced haze, to make out the exit sign. It burns bright red light into her corneas and even though it makes no sound – and even if it did, certainly it would be indiscernible amid the noise of the crowded bar – she swears at it for humming so loudly. But still it beckons her on and she trudges toward the back hurling herself through the door the electric sign sits atop of.

Even though the sun has been down for several hours, the air remains hot and sticky and she cringes as sweat begins to run down her back. There are a few people milling around, most lean up against the rough brick wall laughing and talking with cigarettes pressed between their lips and vibes of desperation oozing from every pore. She turns away from them and retches, one hand pressed against the building for balance, the sharp bricks cutting into her palm. Then she stands, inhales sharply and makes her way around the side of the bar toward the beat up old pick up.

After what seems like a marathon journey of tripping and stumbling she grabs the handle and jerks the door open. Too fast, too hard, the metal slams into her face, opening the gash above her eye that had just begun to heal. "Damn it," She moans as she climbs inside the truck, careful not to do any further damage to herself, and lays down across the bench seat. The blood that collects over her eye, soaking through the thick gauze feels cool and refreshing and she lets out a slight drunken laugh because of it. Who would feel relieved to bleed? Clearly she was in a worse state than she had thought. Of course _that_ thought only makes her laugh harder.

"Okay," she says to herself, putting an end to the giggles. "Okay," she repeats as she shoves a hand into her pocket, pulls out a small silver flip phone. She turns it on and watches as it comes to life, squints to read the too, too bright display, and begins looking through the contacts. "Tessa," she says, dragging her name out long and exaggerated as she reads it. And the button is pushed.

It rings twice before a familiar voice answers, hesitant. "Hello," he says.

"Hey," she lets out casually as though this were a simple _how've you been_ call.

"Tessa?" The voice comes out strangled. What is it, excitement? Relief? Fear? She can't quite tell. Normally gauging her big brother's reactions is a piece of cake, but right now she's drunk, and more than that, she no longer trusts anything, not even her own instincts. "Tess," he says clearly, more sure of himself, "where are you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"What?" There are voices in the background, ones she can't quite make out. But when she closes her eyes she can almost see it all, see that the voices belong to her other brother and her father. She can see them both lunging at different times for the phone, Dean fighting them off and turning his back, trying to ignore their antics. She can actually _feel_ him shaking his head in confusion. "Where are you?" he says again.

"Found my phone?"

"Yeah."

"I thought I told you never to answer my phone," she jokes. "Touching my things…_tsk, tsk, tsk_."

"Baby," he starts, then takes a deep breath, "what's going on?"

Her eyes shoot open and tears start to collect, form thick pools within her lids, and slowly, sloppily spill down her face. _Baby_. She must be in trouble. He must be worried. The last time he called her baby was a few years ago when she started choking on blood after being slammed into a wall by some poltergeist. The fear in his voice then…in his eyes…_thank god_, she thinks, _I can't see him right now_. She knew this would be hard, on all of them, but she hadn't thought through how hard it might be on her, to hurt the people she loved.

"Hey," she says, sniffling slightly, trying to sound at least somewhat upbeat so as to drown out the tears. "Remember when I used to sleepwalk?"

"Yeah," he says impatiently. Then, "Tessa – "

"No, wait, just listen. Remember how I said I didn't know why I did it? And I said I didn't dream or anything, and…you remember?"

"Yeah." She can hear her father clearly now, demanding that Dean hand him the phone. But he must be avoiding the man because her brother's breathing still echoes in her ear.

"I lied." Preparation can only get a person so far. She had rehearsed this conversation over and over again in her head, sometimes with Dean, sometimes with Sam. She had almost let it out several times over the last couple of years, but could never quite manage. "I heard her calling me," she says, closing her eyes once again, trying to imagine her family there in her hotel room, all together again, together without her.

"Who?"

"Mom." There is silence for a moment on the other end and she can't help but wonder if Dean's left the room, maybe locked himself in the bathroom or something just to get away from the other two men. But there isn't any pounding on a closed door or muffled yells as there almost certainly would be if that were the case. So they must have just calmed down. "She called out to me. And I know that sounds crazy, because really, how would I even know what her voice sounded like, right? But I knew it was her. She'd call me and I'd get up and go to her…to where I thought she was anyway. But I never saw her. I never got close enough, you know?"

"No baby, I don't know," he says softly, clearly trying to hide his frustration.

"I never got _there_," she says as she wipes away tears with the back of her hand. "I got close a couple of times, but I never quite made it. But the thing is, Dean…Dean?"

"I'm here."

"The thing is, the only times I…got close, when her voice got louder and it seemed like she'd be right there, if I just looked…the only times that happened was when I got hurt. When I fell in that pool, or when I fell off the balcony…remember?"

"I remember."

"It was like she was right there, like if only I had gone a little bit further…she was calling me you know? You understand?"

"Tess…"

"You don't," she says coldly. Her brain is muddled and she starts to think that maybe this wasn't the best time to try and explain this, after a liquor-filled night. The thought occurs to her that Dean's only seen her drunk once before. Does he know she is now? Can he recognize it? She tries to focus and sound as sober as possible, taking extra care not to inadvertently slur her words or say something too bizarre, or start crying, bawling like a little baby. "She called me, and I went, and I only got close to her when I got close to, I don't know, death, I guess." She pauses briefly. _I guess? I know._ "Death," she says again, more certain.

"Tess, that's crazy. Mom – " In the background she hears Sam say something, something about Mom.

"It's not crazy. She only did what was right. She knew."

"Knew what?" Her father's voice booms in the background, once again demanding the phone.

"That I didn't belong here, don't belong." No matter how many times she's heard it, said it to herself even, just thought it, _you don't belong_, it always manages to sting.

"Tessa?" She sits up sharply, so fast that the entire world starts to spin. Dad. He must have grabbed the phone away from Dean. Now her brother is the one cursing in the background. "Tessa?" she hears again. But one tortured family member is enough for one day and even if she didn't feel like she was about to vomit again, or like her head might actually, truly explode, she wouldn't be able to talk to him right now. So she flips the phone shut.

She sits for a moment and tries to regain her composure. After a couple of deep breaths the ground, or the truck at least, seems to be rather steady, no longer spinning wildly around her. The phone vibrates in her hand and the caller display comes up with her name. She doesn't turn the phone off, doesn't care enough to. She just tosses it into the glove box and listens as it bounces around inside the tiny compartment. Her eyes close and she leans forward, resting her head on the hard steering wheel. For a moment she feels relaxed, or as relaxed as she's been in the last couple of weeks anyway. And her body starts to let go of some tension, her mind starts to drift off…

_Bang, bang, bang!_ She pulls herself upright and as if on cue every muscle tightens yet again. Always on alert, must always remain alert and ready. "Hey," he says through the glass, his hand still resting on the window. "Open up." She reaches down and unlocks the driver's side door, then scoots across the seat. He enters, pulls himself into the cab and gives her a curious look, reaches out and touches the wound above her eye, wipes away some blood. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she says, lying down again, feeling a heaviness creep into her body, reaching out into every limb, down to every finger and toe. She lays her head in his lap and closes her eyes as he gently strokes her sweaty hair. "I called them."

"That's good. They're probably really worried about you."

"They should be."

"Yeah," he says knowingly before changing the subject. "You're kind of plastered, huh?"

She snuggles closer to him and ignores his comment. "They're gonna find me, or try anyway. They won't give up."

"They know what they're in for? Or what might happen if they do?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does matter, Tessa. If you want to do what's right here, you want to fix this…"

"I don't want them to think it's about me. It's not. Not really."

"Actually it kind of is. They won't let it happen, Tess."

"I know."

"If they track you down…"

"I know," she says louder, more forcefully. "But they'll try." She grabs his hand and pulls it close to her chest so that his arm is draped over her. "You're not the only crazy, overprotective man in my life you know," she says as she kisses his hand.

He waits until her breathing is deep and steady, a sure sign of sleep, something she hasn't gotten any of in days, and he moves his hand away from her, turns the key in the ignition, and drives off into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Author's Note: There's kind of a lot of information in this chapter, so if any of it doesn't make sense or seems a bit confusing, just let me know. Also, I didn't really get many reviews in the last chap, so I thought I'd just go ahead and ask...would you like to see more of Tessa too, or just keep focus on the boys? You tell me, I aim to please!

_This is John Winchester, I can't be reached. If this is an emergency_… 

He slams the phone shut and throws it up against the wall. "Damn it!" For the past five minutes he'd been calling, hoping she'd answer. But all he ever got was his own voice worming its way into his ear.

"Maybe if you had just let me talk to her," Dean spews from across the room. His posture resembles a little boy sulking, but his face is alight with rage. John looks at him and for a moment nothing but anger and frustration can be felt in the room. "She didn't want to talk to you," he says slowly, almost hatefully, to his father.

Sam goes to the corner and picks up the pink phone, looks at the display list, and speaks, breaking through at least some of the tension. "She called from your cell. How'd she get your phone?"

John looks at him, his eyes softening a bit as they come to rest on his other son. "I don't know. I lost it."

"When?"

"A few weeks ago."

"You just _lost it_?" Dean asks incredulously.

"Actually," he says sharply, "I thought it was stolen, a pick pocket or something. I had it…and then it was gone." He sits down on the bed, his shoulders hunched. "She wasn't there, I would have known. I would have seen her."

"But – " Sam tries.

"Somebody must have taken it and given it to her. I don't know who." A sudden look of realization comes over his face, followed by a quick hint of anguish. "That's how she found him," he says to himself.

"Who?" inquires Sam.

"Baz. That was the only place I had his name, his number. I refused to give her my contacts. It really pissed her off."

"So she stole them from you."

"She didn't sound good," Dean says, changing the subject. He scrapes his foot along the carpet carelessly. His eyes no longer carry anger, just sadness, and he does all he can to avert them from the gazes of his family members.

"What do you mean?" Sam asks hesitantly.

"I mean, she didn't sound good. She was crying, trying to hide it, but still…" He sighs deeply and shakes his head, laughs a bit. "Sounded drunk."

"Great," his father mutters. "That's just great."

"What did she say?" Sam says, ignoring him.

Dean finally looks up, makes eye contact, and tells them all about her little tirade regarding her year of sleepwalking. "Dad?" he says when he finishes. He looks to his father who is sitting on the bed looking tired, worn out, and not at all surprised. "Did you know about this?" he asks when John offers no response.

"She told me. Years ago…the night she fell off the balcony. She told me that Mary had been calling her. I made her promise that she would never do it again, never follow the voice. She mentioned to me, months later, that she'd ignored her for so long that she never even heard her call anymore. I don't know if that was true or not, but it certainly made me feel better."

"Do you think it was true…that Mom was really calling her?" Sam asks, his face showing that he's hoping for a 'no'.

"I wondered." He shakes his head, a gesture almost identical to the one Dean made moments before. "It's true. Mary knew, I guess…she knew that Tessa wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be with her."

"Dad…"

"It's true, Sam. Your sister should have died then, ten years ago. She should have died but I wouldn't let her. The sleepwalking started just after she got out of the hospital, remember? We thought it was just…trauma related or something. But it wasn't. It was your mother trying to make things right, trying to bring her to the place she should have been."

"And where's that?" Dean asks, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. "Heaven? Hell? Some kind of limbo?"

"I don't know."

"Because, you know, Mom wasn't even where she _should have been_. She was haunting our old house."

"She wasn't haunting it," Sam corrects.

"Well she was there. She wasn't exactly resting in peace."

"I don't know the _where_, Dean. I only know the _why_. I think she knew what might happen, your mother…I think she knew what it would mean if Tessa stayed here when she didn't belong."

"I hate this," Sam says absently. "I can't believe we're even talking like this. I mean she's Tessa. She's not some kind of freak or monster or…_thing_. Doesn't _belong_? What does that even mean?"

"It means – "

"People cheat death all the time. Miracles happen everyday. So what, those people don't belong here either?"

"Yeah but what happened wasn't a miracle," Dean says before turning to his father and changing the subject back. "What would happen, Dad? What do you think Mom was trying to prevent?"

"Yeah," Sam scoffs. "What was she trying to prevent by luring her daughter to death?"

"Jessica," he retorts, short and quick. The name rolls off his tongue tinged with bitterness and rage, and he regrets it the moment he sees the look on his son's face. He might as well have punched him in the stomach. In fact it might have hurt less if he had, if he'd smacked him for his insolence instead of punishing him with the truth in such a careless fashion. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he says quietly, gazing at his son's ashen face.

"Whoa, wait a minute," Dean says, almost as taken aback as his brother. "What?"

"Jessica." Sam is left virtually speechless, left to repeat the only word he's able to form. "Jessica," he says again, barely above a whisper.

"She got what she wanted when she took your mother," John says quickly.

"She?"

"She had no reason to come back."

"She who?" Dean leans forward and places his hands on his father's shoulders preparing to shake him. "Dad, she who?" he says loudly, breaking into John's far off gaze.

"Lilith…succubus…that, that _thing_. Call it what you want."

Dean turns and sits down next to his father, his mouth agape. He looks at Sam, his expression mirroring his own, then moves his eyes back to his father. It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts enough to speak, but it seems that everyone in the room is having that same problem, so he takes his time. "This is it then? This is what happened to Mom? All these years and…this is how we find out?"

"I'm sorry," he says, his eyes connecting pleadingly with his son's.

"Just tell me," he says, then looks at Sam who is sitting in shock, tears readying themselves to fall down his cheeks. "Just tell us."

"I loved your mother. I still love your mother, always will. Always." He pauses to swallow down the tears that burn at the back of his own throat, then continues on in monotone, as though he actually managed to shut all the emotion off. "I never would have given in to her. You were babies," he says looking at Sam. "You and your sister were just babies at the time and Mary and I had a lot to deal with. Dean was still so young, and then twins on top of that. We were stressed, strapped for cash. There were days when it seemed like we never even saw each other, touched each other, we were both so busy. And then this woman, Sarah…she started working with me. She was at the front desk, answering phones and things. We hit it off, had a lot in common. It was like she always knew the right thing to say. Now I know why," he says, his gaze moving steadily back and forth between each of his sons. "She was playing me. But I never gave in."

"Created to lead men's hearts astray," Sam says wistfully, as though remembering the line from a book. "It's just a legend though, right? Lilith? She's not real."

"We're talking about _the Lilith_, Adam and Eve, but before Eve, Lilith?" Dean asks.

"There are tons of legends, stories…who knows what exactly is true and what isn't? But all myths come from a place of truth, right? I've taught you that?" Both of the young men nod. "I didn't know it at the time," he says, continuing his story. "I only know what Baz told me."

"How did he know? Was he there?"

"Yes, he was," he says soberly.

"He didn't…" Sam says, finding himself unable to finish.

"Take your mother? No. No, he was there to protect you."

"Me?"

John takes in a deep breath. There's just too much that he has to say, he's saved it all up for too long. He takes a quick glance around the room, notices all the books, all the papers, wonders about how much information is on the laptop on the table. And all of this represents only a fraction of the research both he and his daughter had sifted through. He closes his eyes and thinks about where he should begin, tries to remember all that he's already said. When his eyes open again he sees both of his boys looking at him from either side, expectantly, waiting for him to explain everything.

"She tries to seduce men," he says simply, "lure their hearts astray, as you said. If it works, inevitably his wife will find out, marriage ruined. Demons, you know. It's not all death and destruction, sometimes they just like screwing up people's lives. They think it's fun." He shakes his head, reminds himself to stay on track, simply relay the facts. "Sometimes they resist, and that makes her angry. There are all kinds of different stories, myths, legends. One is from the Jewish Midrash. It says that Lilith has the ability to cause infants to fall sick and die. Persian myths agree, say she attacks children. That's usually what happens. If someone resists, she'll kill one of his children. Baz said she's almost single handedly responsible for SIDS."

"That's a lot of babies," Dean says simply to relieve his urge to speak, say something.

"But…why Mom?" asks Sam.

"It happens…it's hard to explain. There's a lot to this, Sammy."

"Just try," Dean says, placing his hand on his father's arm, the first touch of love and comfort he's offered him in a very long time. "Just try to explain."

"Baz knows all about this because he's her son. One of them anyway. He's part of the Shedim, a group of demons that Lilith bore. The Alphabet of Ben Sira," he turns toward the stacks of books. "I'm sure she has it here somewhere. It says that, because she refused to return to Adam, 100 of her children will die every day. He doesn't wasn't to die, Baz. So he's tried to escape the curse. That's why he spends most of his time here, possessing people, trying to live among us and hide from his own kind."

"I thought you said he was hiding because he did something, went against them or something?"

"He did. God placed the curse, you can't hide from God. But he lets him live as long as he does good. Of course that goes against his…family."

"So he's a demon who goes around doing good so he can stay alive, and because of that other demons want him dead?"

"They're always hunting him."

Dean shakes his head and smirks. "Same old story," he says with a hint of sarcasm.

"Um," Sam says. "What about me? He was protecting me?"

John nods. "There are certain children who he's sent to protect. That's what he said. Usually, no one interferes with her…victims, something about maintaining balance. But for some reason, some kids are…I don't know…special. And Baz protects them from his mother, because he can. Because really, no one but another demon could ever know about her plans. Or stop them from happening. He said that sometimes things go smoothly, although he wouldn't say what that meant. But sometimes they don't. Sometimes…call it mother's intuition…someone will interrupt whatever it is that he does, walk in on him and his demon bitch of a mother. And if that happens…well, that's what happened to you mother."

"She walked in on them?"

"He could protect you, but he can't put himself between her and someone else, not while he's helping the child. It would have happened to anyone else who'd been in the room, in your nursery. Tessa was fussy that night and I took her downstairs. We both fell asleep in front of the TV. Otherwise…it could have been her. If I hadn't been downstairs, if I had heard something, or sensed something…it could have been me. Baz said it's usually the mother. They tend to have stronger connections I guess, tend to know when something's up."

"So she just…walked in? And it killed her?" Sam asks, his voice strangled.

"Shouldn't be that simple, should it?" he says, placing his hand on his son's knee. "But when he told me all of this…I gotta tell you Sammy, I felt kind of relieved. All this time I just thought that it was senseless, some evil spirit or demon that killed her just to kill her, just because it wanted to. But it wasn't like that at all. She died protecting you, at least in my eyes. She sensed something was wrong and by going in there, she sacrificed herself for you. That may hurt to hear, but I think it also makes her death somehow worthwhile, don't you?"

He shrugs, tears rolling down his face. John throws his arm around Sam's shoulders and squeezes him tight. "I know I should have told you when I found out. I thought about it. But then when I got back from Philly, you had gotten your acceptance to Stanford, and it was all you could talk about, going away to school, leaving us, leaving me. I got scared, Sam, scared and angry. I looked at you and I thought about what your mother went through for you, what she was forced to go through because of _me_…"

"It wasn't your fault," Dean offers. His father reaches up and grasps his shoulder, pats his arm in appreciation. "All you did was refuse to cheat on your wife. Dad, that's a good thing. You were right."

"Yeah," Sam says through the tears. "There's only one bad guy here, and it's not you."

John lets go of his boys, lets his arms drop to his sides as he rises from the bed. "Oh, Sam, you might not think that when I finish."


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: I'm not even going to pretend like this chapter is really any good, but it's been so long since I updated...I knew I had to write _something _just to try and get the creative juices flowing again. So here is...something. Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

_Wydecker, Ohio – Three weeks earlier_

He'd been sitting at the outdoor café for nearly an hour before she finally decided to show up. As she moves slowly towards him he fights the urge to rise and wrap his arms around her, tell her how glad he is that she's all right, how angry he is that she's so late. But that might seem a bit suspicious, and the whole idea of having these covert little meetings is to blend in. So he continues to sip his coffee and pretend to read the paper as she walks up and takes a seat across from him.

"You're late," he says calmly, though the anger is still palpable. She says nothing to him, only orders a cup of coffee for herself when the waitress arrives. He folds the paper up and looks at her over the tops of his sunglasses. But she does not look at him.

"I've been reading," she says softly, then laughing a bit, "like I do anything else."

Her face hardens, so much so that it seems as though it might even crack. And he notices. He notices how red her eyes are. Has she been crying? Has she simply forgone sleep? He notices how pale her complexion is, just as it always was of course, but now it stands out even more because her cheeks are burning. He knows that she only blushes like that when she's angry, furious, and attempting to keep it all inside so as not to explode. "Tessa?" he says in a tone that any of his children could easily recognize. _Tell me what's wrong and tell me now or there will be hell to pay_.

The waitress returns with her coffee and for a moment it seems as though she is in the process of ignoring her father completely while she slowly stirs mounds of sugar into the black liquid. Then she goes on speaking, her eyes aiming themselves out into the street just beyond John's head. "You know nearly every faith has an idea regarding balance, a notion of a sort of equilibrium. Even if the concepts of good and evil don't exist, at least not how we think of them, there's still that idea that things that come from opposite ends of the spectrum can only coexist if there's a carefully maintained balance." She gulps at her coffee and spurns as the scalding drink runs down her throat.

"What are you talking about?" It's no secret that his daughter can be a bit eccentric, often going on and on about random things that may mean something to her, but seldom do to anyone else. They've all had to deal with it, but right now, mostly because of her angry demeanor, he simply wants to know the facts, the short version. And his patience is quickly dissipating.

But she couldn't care less about his impatience. "Entropy, I think. I don't know. I was never very good at science. Physics, though, it's a basic law. What is it, equal and opposite reactions? For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction. Same thing."

"Same thing as what?" he asks, frustration playing on voice.

"There's always going to be that reaction, has to be to keep the balance. There'll always be consequences. But you know that, right Dad?" she says as her eyes lock onto his. And all at once, he knows.

"What?" he asks, trying to sound as though he truly has no idea what she's talking about.

"I met with your friend Baz," she says simply, and her cheeks turn even redder.

"Baz?"

"He told me."

"Told you what?"

"Everything."

"Tessa…" he starts, but quiets and shakes his head solemnly when realizing there's really nothing he can say.

"She's dead because of me. You realize that, don't you?" She spits the words out, leaning into him as she does so, careful to be quiet, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

"I didn't know," he offers softly.

"How could you not? He told you there would be consequences, what the hell did you think he meant?"

"I don't…I wasn't thinking."

"Obviously," she scoffs, leaning back in her chair.

"You don't understand," he says gazing at her. Almost her entire face is a bright shade of red now and he can't tell if it's because she's trying to control her anger or her tears, which keep pooling and lingering on her bottom lid. But still, she's beautiful, just as he always thought she would be, just as she almost never was. He reaches out to touch her hand, but she quickly pulls away and folds her arms protectively over her chest, leans far enough back in her chair to remain just out of reach. "I love you," he says, hoping that's enough to explain it all.

She laughs bitterly and the movement is just enough to cause those tears to spill. "I met her, Dad. I knew her. I talked to her on the phone. I liked her. And Sam _loved_ her. _He _loved _her_."

"And if he had a choice like I did, he probably would have done the same thing." She shakes her head in response, bites her bottom lip and tugs at with her teeth. It's a habit she's had her whole life, biting her lip when she gets upset, uncomfortable, scared. "Tessa," he says, barely a whisper.

"Do you even know, really know, what you've done? What you've started?"

"Look, I'm sorry for what happened to Jessica. I'm sorry for Sam. But I don't regret what I did. I'm not sorry that I have you here."

She turns to him stonily. The tears continue to run down her face leaving streaks that gleam in the sunshine, but other than that she seems to be devoid of emotion. "It's not just her. You made them angry. You caused the balance to be thrown wholly out of whack. You think it's over now? A life for a life?" She pauses and waits for him to respond, but he does not. "Jeremy was that life. And you knew that then. He died so I could live."

"I never wanted that."

"But just trading one kid's life for another isn't always enough. There are things that he should have done that now…and there are things that I've done that never should have happened. Dad, do you get that?"

"I told you, at the time I wasn't thinking clearly. I'm not saying I would have made a different decision if I had been, but…"

"It doesn't matter now," she says in a deep and serious tone. "They're going to keep coming. Did Baz tell you that? They're not going to stop."

"Now who's throwing the balance out of whack?" he says sarcastically.

"I mean it, Dad. I don't know what I did," she says, her voice cracking. "I don't know, but Baz said I must have done something…something I wasn't supposed to, something that shouldn't have happened. And they found out, that I'm still here even though I shouldn't be."

"Honey, if this were all about you, they would have just come after you."

"No." She wipes the tears from her face and squints into the sun. "I started all this to find out what happened to Mom. I had to know." She turns and looks at her father. "You know. He told you."

"Yes."

"He told you how she died?"

"She walked in. He was trying to…deal with the situation. She just got in the way."

"It was anger. It wasn't even intentional. That…thing just got so angry and frustrated and Mom came in on that, and it just sliced through her. The fire…fire is all about jealousy and anger and animosity."

"I know."

"And that's how Jessica died too. That's _why_ she died. The rest of the Shedim hate Baz, hate him. And when they found out about me and what he did…they found out about Sam too, and what he is."

John looks at her as he feels the breath catch in his chest, and he barely manages the words, "What do you mean?"

"They found out about me and went looking for him. I think you know why."

"That doesn't – "

"He wasn't there. At the time, he wasn't there because he was with Dean, looking for you. But they knew he was alive, that he lived there. They got angry, and she got in the way, just like Mom." She stops and notices the stricken look on her father's face. "You understand, right? Baz could protect him when he was a baby, he could save him from _her_. But he can't keep him safe forever, not now that they know who he is." She leans back in her chair again, resigned for the moment. "That's what you did, Dad. These are the consequences. They're after Sam now."

"You don't know that for sure. Did he tell you that, Baz?"

"They won't stop. They'll keep coming until he's dead. Or worse."

"Damn it, Tessa…"

"It's true." She leans close and whispers to him. "There's only one thing we can do to stop it."

They lock eyes for one long moment as realization dawns on him. "No," he says firmly, a bit too loudly as well. Then, more hushed, "I will not let you – "

She rises quickly, pushing her seat out into the open aisle way. "If you try to stop me…" Her mouth pinches shut and she stops herself from going on and saying anything she might regret. Instead she turns and leaves, walks briskly out of the café, leaving John alone and slack-jawed.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

_Author's Note: I know, this one's short too, but oh well. I think I'm going to put in some action in the next chapter, getting kind of tired of all the talky-talky and nothing else, you probably are too. Also, I think I may have to kill someone. Not sure who yet, and not sure why, but I think that death may be inescapable for at least one character, maybe more, don't know. Tell me what you think. Who should live and who should die, if anyone? Also, I'm pretty sure it's coming to an end, but I haven't really decided how I'm going to end it yet. Any suggestions? Any and all are welcome, no matter how ludacrus they may seem. Should it be a happy ending, or a miserable one? Anywho, on with the story!_

John sits with his head in his hands and waits. He waits for his son to yell, scream, maybe even take a swing at him. Certainly he would say how much he hates him. If it weren't for him, after all, Jess would still be alive, and Sam would still be with her, in school, happy. So once he finishes telling his boys about all that he had done, all that Tessa had found out, he readies himself for that inevitable blow.

But it doesn't come.

Instead of lashing out at his father, Sam simply sits next to him, lost in his own thoughts, encumbered by a world of silence. It's Dean who first speaks, but John is so concentrated on Sam at the time, so eager and hesitant both to hear what _he_ has to say, that his other son's words don't even register.

"Dad?" Dean says as he looms above his father. John looks up, shows that he is now paying attention, even if he hadn't been just five seconds before. "You're saying Sam's in trouble? This thing is after him?" His posture is weak, like that of an old hunched man, and all at once John realizes what he's done to his children in one short night. He's managed to shatter whatever few illusions they had, stomped all over whatever shred of innocence they may have possessed. He looks at his eldest son and sees a man who's aged twenty years in the last five hours.

"As I understand it," he begins, looking away from Dean and instead off into the corner of the room, "there are certain ones that would like to find him and kill him." He's blunt, but he can't help it. Each of them is tired, exhausted really, and it's beginning to take its toll.

"So?" Dean says, encouraging him to go on, to tell him what the plan was, is, for defending his brother. John sighs, a long drawn out sigh that eventually devolves into a giant yawn. "Dad?" he spits out, clearly annoyed.

"You should know by now that I would never let anything happen to any of you."

"Right," he says with a scoff before lowering himself into a chair. "That's why were all here trying to track down your missing daughter."

"Sam'll be fine," he says, ignoring Dean's provocation. "If she wanted you two to come here, then she must have known it was safe, safe enough at least. She must have thought they wouldn't find any of us here."

"But we can't stay here forever."

"No, we can't."

"So, what are we going to do?" He waits for his father to answer, but all he does is shake his head slightly. "What did Tess do? What's she doing now?" he asks, a more somber tone to his voice. The end of the story was ominous to say the least. Sam's in danger and Tessa claimed there was only one thing they could do. And whatever that thing was, their father clearly did not want her to take part in it.

"I'm not really sure," he says after a moment of contemplation.

"But you knew what she meant? What was she planning to do?"

"A life for a life, that's how balance is maintained."

"Whose life?" he asks, his voice straining to hide the sudden panic.

John just looks at him. No response is necessary.

"She died because of me," Sam says, almost a whisper, as he stirs at his father's side. It's clear from the look on his face that he hasn't been paying attention to their conversation and likely has no idea what's happening now, probably doesn't even realize he's spoken aloud. He lets out a slight uncomfortable laugh and gazes up at the ceiling, at nothing. "I mean, I knew it was me, but…this whole time…it was all because of me…"

"What is it with you people!" Dean bellows as he jumps up from his seat. In a flash he is in front of Sam, his wide eyes burrowing into him. "_It was me. It was me. It was me_," he mocks before collapsing onto the floor in a hunched ball, his face buried in his hands. His voice comes out muffled and strained. "Not everything is your fault," he says to no one in particular.

"Dean," Sam says softly as he reaches out for his brother's shoulder.

But Dean bats the hand away and gives him another angry stare. "Just because it came for you and found her instead, just because it got angry that you weren't there…that doesn't make it your fault. You had some crazy-ass dreams a few nights before and did nothing about them, you know because they were crazy and stupid and didn't make any sense. And guess what, Sam, _that_ doesn't make it your fault either. And you," he says, turning to his father, "you _didn't_ have an affair and you _didn't_ let your kid die, and you think that makes you some kind of horrible person who's to blame for everything? And Tessa too, I don't even know what she did…what, live? And she's all guilty? Shit, people, get over yourselves!"

The room falls into silence once again. After all there really isn't much left to say. And there'd be no telling how long that would have gone on if John hadn't ended it by giving the order that everyone in the room truly longed to hear, whether consciously or not. Get some sleep. "We're no good like this," he says finally. "I can't think. I'm sure you can't either. And if we're going to find her, we need to have our minds rested enough to figure out where to look. You boys can share the bed."

"What about you?" Sam asks.

"I can manage on the floor. Right now I'm so exhausted I could fall asleep in that chair over there and probably think it was the comfiest thing ever."

Sam smiles, if only a bit, and looks at his father, a wordless _thank you_ springs from his reddened eyes.

"Go on then," John says. "Get some sleep."

They're out for no more than a few hours when the little pink cell phone rings again. Each is torn from sleep by the second ring, but it's Sam, who's always been able to wake fully in a matter of moments while the others are forced to groggily collect themselves, who gets to it first.

"Hello?" he says cautiously. He had been in such a hurry to answer that he neglected to even check the caller ID.

"_Hey,"_ he hears from the other end. A smile passes over his face. Relief.

"Hey," he says in turn. "Where are you?"

"_Bandridge. It's about forty miles out."_

"Bandridge?" he says, scrunching up his face. By now John and Dean have both come out their stupor and are watching him intently, trying as hard as they can not to rip the phone from his grasp and take over.

"_Yep, still in Texas,"_ she says. Her voice is heavy and low, scratchy, and Sam is reminded of what Dean said after talking to her the night before. _Sounded drunk_.

"Are you okay?" he asks for too many reasons. She's alone, so far as he knows, maybe scared, certainly hurt, and probably hung over, if not still drunk.

"_Fine. You?"_

"Yeah. Just, you know, sitting here, trying to figure out all this…stuff. Trying to find you."

"_Ah, my life's work. Find anything interesting?"_

"Yeah, actually, a lot of – "

"Sam!" He looks across the room back at the bed where both his father and brother sit, and sees Dean's annoyed face, his impatient glare. He shrugs his shoulders at them both as if to say, _hey, at least I got her talking_, and he turns back around to continue the conversation in peace.

"_Look, Sam, there are some things you need to know. And the thing is, I can't tell you over the phone."_

"Is it about Jess? About how or…why she died? Because I already know. Dad told me, us…last night." There's silence for a moment and all he can hear is her breathing, but he doesn't say anything, simply waits for her to speak.

"_Yeah,"_ she says finally. _"I'm really sorry about that."_

"It wasn't your fault."

"_Yeah, well, kind of debatable. But…there's something else. I have a plan, or at least I'm working on one. And I need you, and Dean. And Dad. And I thought that maybe I wouldn't, but…I don't know, maybe I don't. It's just that…"_

"Tess," he says softly, quietly cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. This is meant just for her. "It doesn't matter. Whatever made you run, thought you could do this on you own, or had to…whatever made you change your mind…it doesn't matter. Just tell me where to go."

"_Here, Bandridge. There's a library. It's big, at the center of town. You'll find it. Two hours. That should give us plenty of time. And, Sam?"_

"Yeah?"

"_Have you been reading up? Everything there I left for a reason. I know there's a lot and you haven't had much time. We didn't know how long all this might take, but things are happening kind of fast. And, oh, did you get my message?"_

"Message? Which one?"

"_On the mirror."_

"Oh, yeah."

"_She said she knew you, met you. I thought you'd understand."_

"Actually…"

"_She's dangerous, Sam, that's all you need to know right now. Shit, we shouldn't be talking still. You never know, you know?"_

"Um…"

"_Bandridge. Library. Two hours. Bring everything weapon-like, oh and Dad and Dean, bring them too."_

"Okay," he says just before realizing that she'd already hung up. He turns back to his family and gives them a sly smile. "Found her," he says triumphantly while flipping the all-too-feminine phone shut.

You may all feel free to review now.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

_Author's Note: Okay so I lied, there isn't really any action in this one. But I think I needed to explain a bit more first. Stay tuned though, the big final showdown is coming up. Who will live and who will die? We shall see._

She sits on the floor amongst a stack of books in the Romance section, the least frequented this time of morning. Her legs are folded beneath her and her attention is seemingly captured solely by the open book that lay in her lap. Her eyes peruse the pages and she yawns, long and wide, before saying, without looking up, "The prodigal son returns."

All three men stop in their tracks and turn their heads slowly as if taking a cue from some sort of old fashioned comedy, a single take in unison. They had arrived only minutes before and were preparing to split up and search the library's vast spaces. But the Romance section was nearest the door, perhaps because it was just small enough to fit into the cove there, perhaps because those who sought out that section did not want others believing they were really the kind of people who would venture deep within a library.

She closes the book around her finger to save the place and looks up at the men, all of whom seem to have been struck dumb. "Was it a warm and fuzzy reunion?" she asks the group, her eyes lingering on her father's face a bit longer than on the others'.

"Not exactly a reunion," Dean says as he begins to move forward. "One of us was missing."

"One of us," she repeats in a whisper, almost to herself.

"You okay?" he asks as he kneels down in front of her, runs his thumb across the giant bruise, letting it come to rest gently on the wide red split in her lip. She doesn't wince, but pulls back all the same. "Your head?" he says, indicating the bandage over her eyebrow.

She grasps the bookshelves behind her and pushes herself up, looking wildly around as though, all of sudden, there were no safe place to lay her eyes. "Yeah," she says halfheartedly. "Fine."

She glances back at Sam and John just long enough to see her father spring forward, lurching at her. Before she can move, or even think about moving, she is in his arms, feeling his breath in her ear as he says quietly to her, "Don't you ever…ever do that to me again. Ever." He pulls away and looks at her shocked face, her stiff form still held tightly in his hands. "Do you hear me, Tessa? Theresa Rose Winchester? Do you understand me?" he asks firmly, his voice deep and strained.

"Yes sir," she utters in response, and he lets go, takes a couple of steps back and readies himself for work. She shakes her head quickly to bring herself back around, out of the drowsy stupor she'd fallen into. "Um…" she says, but can't quite find the words that should come next.

"Let's start with who did that to you?" John says, his arms folding across his chest as he nonchalantly leans his back against a shelf filled with pink and purple books, all of the bindings too worn.

"Meg," she says with a sigh before bending down to collect her books. Dean helps her, catching one copy as it falls from her laden arms, and grabbing two more that perch precariously atop the pile, and follows on her heels as she moves for the stairs.

"_Meg_ Meg?" Sam asks as he too follows up the winding staircase.

"Don't worry," she tosses over her shoulder, "I kicked her ass."

Dean mutters under his breath, "I'm sure you did." And she stops suddenly causing a domino effect, each Winchester ramming into the one in front of them.

She turns and looks down at Dean who's busy trying to juggle books while regaining his balance. "I did," she says shyly and continues on her way.

They reach a small and abandoned cove on the second level, buried within a ton of dusty old reference books that look as though they haven't been touched in years, let alone pulled from the shelf and flipped through. She drops the books onto a table and sits, waits for the others to do the same. "I met her a while ago," she says as she begins arranging the books on the table. "At a bar. She just walked in and started talking to me, which I thought was kind of weird, but…" She stops and wrinkles her nose, looking at the books, then switches two of them around. "Anyway, I didn't know who she was, just some girl who was lonely and wanted to talk I guess. But Ben dragged me out of there when he saw her, said there was something about her."

"Wait," Sam interrupts, shaking his head. "Ben?"

"Oh, yeah," she says, genuinely surprised at having forgotten to mention him. "Ben. I met him a few months ago…six actually, I think. Up in North Dakota. I was looking into a case there…anyway, his mother died just like ours, twenty-nine years ago. Just like you," she says looking at Sam, "he was spared, saved…by Baz." At his name her voice drops, as do her eyes. And she sighs heavily before continuing. He had just started, then, when we met, to have weird…feelings, senses."

"Like what?" Sam asks quickly, his eyes wide with anticipation.

"Like you." She looks at him for a moment before shaking her head again. "Not _exactly_ like you. It's different for all of you. But it's also the same."

"What does that mean? You're not making any sense."

"You all have a…a gift. Or something. You're all special."

"Well, thanks for that," a man utters from the corner. He emerges with an oddly familiar cell phone in his hand, which he sets on the table and slides toward John. "Sorry about that," he says, pointing at the phone. John picks it up and investigates it for a moment before realizing that it is his. The man moves toward Tessa and stands behind her, grasping the back of her chair, looking embarrassed and awkwardly out of place.

"Speak of the Devil," she says with a hint of irony. "_This_ is Ben. Ben, this everyone." She makes a sweeping gesture with her arm to indicate the men around the table and looks up at the man behind her. He lets go of the chair long enough to rake his fingers through his wavy sandy colored hair and shift uncomfortably on his toes. "Oh, stop it," she says, swatting him playfully. "Don't be such a pussy. They won't bite."

"You stole my phone," John says incredulously.

"I made him," she blurts before Ben has a chance to respond. "He's been helping me. Anyway," she says, long and drawn out, "Meg's crazy evil, but I didn't know it then. When we were at the bar she gave me her number, or the number of a friend she said was going to meet in Sacramento. And then when I was up in Vermont…you know about that don't you? You figured all of that out?" They nod. "Well, this chick up there started talking about a young woman named Meg, same description and everything. So I booked, called the number, and she said she'd meet me outside Austin, TX."

"We knew something was up with her," Ben chimes in. "It's not like we were going in blind. I had a feeling about her, and by then we both knew she was more than just sort of involved in all this."

"But you went anyway," Dean says. "You let her go there anyway and get beat to hell by some kind of demon bitch." His face grows red as he speaks and his eyes linger, longer than he intended, on Ben's hand as it rub a path across Tessa's shoulder, his fingers as they knead her flesh.

"She's not a demon," Tessa says, dropping her head and maneuvering her face so that her eyes catch Dean's. He looks at her and the color in his cheeks begins to fade back to a normal shade. She props herself back upright and glances between the three men in front of her, returning to Dean periodically to catch random hateful stares directed at Ben.

"She's human," Ben says, taking over for her. "She was sacrificed, in a manner of speaking."

"It's an ancient practice," Tessa says as she reaches for one of the books and flips to a dog-eared page containing a sketch of a child being burned at an altar. "Mostly those who practiced Zoroastrianism. The sinful would sacrifice their children, daughters usually. Not sure why, there are a lot of possible explanations. That," she says, tapping her finger on the picture, "may have been one way. But others were given body _and_ soul. Sometimes it was purely for sexual purposes. I don't know about Meg's personal life with her _father_. But I do know that her new Daddy is Baz."

"What?" John asks, his eyes shooting up from their focus on the open book.

She merely nods. "That's what she told me when we met, just before she tried to kill me of course. Which," she begins while turning to Dean and capturing his gaze, "she might have done if not for Ben. Not that I like admitting that she managed to get the upper hand on me," she mutters embarrassed.

"Baz told her to do it," Ben continues. "He wanted her to kill Tess because she knew too much. And he wants to kill you," he says looking in Sam's direction, "because they can trace you back to him. He saved you. They know. Now there's a trail they can follow to get to him, and he doesn't want to die."

"But he will," she says firmly as her hand snakes up to her shoulder and squeezes Ben's. She looks to her father. "I don't know that there's much we can do about the thing that killed Mom. If it was a lesser demon maybe…but I have an idea. And I know that we can get rid of Baz in the process…and protect Sam." She picks up a book and tosses it to Sam, then one to Dean and one to her father. "There's a storm coming tonight and a cemetery not far from here. How's your Latin?" she asks to them collectively.

"This is an exorcism rite," John says as he flips through the pages.

"Yeah, there are a few different ones. I don't know which might work. So you have the rest of the day to study those and commit them to memory, or get as close as you can anyway. I have some others we might need to use, Persian incantations and some pleas from Babylonian times. One of them should work. I hope."

"A storm?" Dean asks, his brow knotted in confusion.

"Lilith rides in on the winds that carry great storms," she says.

"I thought we were taking out Baz."

"Baz wants us dead. Meg failed so now he'll do it himself. Of course, the others'll be looking for you now, Sam. She's pissed at her son and I'm sure she wants to tell him so. Wouldn't you?"

"I would," John interjects.

"They're all coming after us. We just have to keep the upper hand, set the trap. So start studying."


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

_Author's Note: I know it's been a while since I updated, sorry about that. Hope you're all still reading. Anywho, I think the next chapter is going to be the last. I still haven't decided if it will be a happy ending or not, we shall see. But I am working on it now, so hopefully it will be up soon. Until then, please give me some feedback, this is your last chance to tell me what you might like to see happen, and close to your last chance to tell me how much you either love or despise the story too._

"So what is this thing again?" Dean asks from the backseat of the Impala. He shifts around uncomfortably, displaying his disdain at being relegated to the back of his own car, and playfully tosses the ceremonial dagger from hand to hand.

"Stop it," she says, reaching back and trying to pry the knife from his grip.

"It was just a question," he counters with a laugh as he moves to avoid her, holds the blade just far enough away that she can't quite reach. Tessa leans further over the seat, the belt awkwardly keeping her hips in place as she again lunges at her brother. And he again averts her.

"Give it to me!"

He carefully moves the dagger underneath him, hiding it by sitting atop, and throws his hands into the air. "I don't have it," he says with a sly wink. She lets out an agitated growl and lunges at him once more, this time grabbing a handful of his hair. "Ow!" he screams as he flails and tugs at her hand trying to get away. He grabs her wrist and twists, moving her entire arm in a painfully awkward manner and she releases her hold. Once he loosens his grip though, her hand shoots back towards him and she pinches a chunk of skin where his shoulder meets his neck. He feels the nerve burn and hum and before he can even scream about how painful it is, his leg flies up, his foot connecting hard with the backside of the driver's seat.

"Damn it!" John screams while trying to keep from swerving into oncoming traffic. "What the hell is wrong with you two!"

"He started it!" she whines as her father grabs her by the shoulder, spinning her back into the front seat. She reclaims her position and looks at Dean in the rearview mirror, watches him sorrowfully rub his shoulder and mumbles under her breath, "Jerk."

"Knock it off," John spits sharply.

"I didn't do anything," Dean protests. "I just wanted to know what it was."

"I told you," she says angrily, turning around to face him once again. "And it's not something you should be playing with. You have any idea how much that is worth?"

"No," he says plainly.

"Only about five million dollars, give or take a few."

His eyes shoot wide open. "What! Are you kidding me!"

"Tessa where did you get it?" John asks, suddenly much more interested in the knife.

"I know people." Both men look at her incredulously. "What? I do."

Dean removes the knife from its hiding place and begins to run his fingers across its blade delicately. "Five million," he says to himself.

"Don't get too excited, I have to give it back. I wasn't even supposed to take it at all, but we might need it."

"Five million," he says again, this time a little louder.

"We're not selling it or anything. I have to give it back," she says again before turning to her father. "Dad," she whines, "tell him."

"Dean, give your sister back her ceremonial dagger."

"Why? You don't trust me?"

"No," the two in front chime in unison. Dean scoffs but ultimately leans over the seat and hands Tessa the knife. All is quiet for a moment as the three settle back in. But only for a moment.

"So where's he taking Sam anyway?" Dean asks. After leaving the library just over an hour ago Ben took Sam _somewhere_ to get _something_ and talk about _some stuff_, but that was all that was said on the subject. He assumed that they probably where going to spend time bonding over their weirdo psychic gifts, but he wanted to know for sure. Besides, there was something about this Ben guy that he didn't trust.

"There's something else we need and they're going to get it," she says as she begins to fiddle with the radio dial. John slaps her hand away, all the reminder she needs. The driver always gets to pick the music.

"What do we need?"

"Something."

"What kind of something?"

"An important something."

"How important?"

"Very."

"Very, _very_ important?"

"Integral."

"Where is it?"

"Somewhere."

"Somewhere close?"

"Not too far."

"But not too close either?"

"Close enough."

"Why'd he have to take Sam?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Just because."

"Just because why?"

"Damn it, Dean! Tessa!" They both turn to their father and watch as his face changes from a normal tone to the angry red they grew up trying – and often failing – to avoid. "Knock it off!"

Another brief silence rolls in over the car. Brief.

"I don't like him," Dean utters only seemingly to himself.

"Who?" John asks hesitantly.

"That guy, Ben. I don't like him."

"Oh my God," Tessa tosses out with an are-you-kidding-me laugh. "You don't even know him."

"Yeah, well…"

"Yeah, well, what?"

"Yeah, well, I don't think I like the influence he's had on you."

"What?" she asks incredulously. "What!"

"You meet this guy and all of a sudden you're getting into fights with demons – "

"All of a sudden?"

" – and running off, not returning phone calls, leaving weird ass messages and stealing,"

"Stealing?"

"Well, you didn't pay for that nice shiny five million dollar dagger, did you?"

"You're unbelievable."

"I'm just saying."

"You're not _saying_ anything, Dean."

"I don't like him, and I don't trust him."

"Well, I do," she says, defiantly crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah, I'll bet you do," he says with a little more than a hint of innuendo. Tessa tenses and turns, scowling at her brother.

"Enough!" John yells. "I've had enough! No more talking. I want nothing but silence from both of you for the remainder of the trip. Is that clear?" When neither responds he asks again. "Is that clear?"

"I thought you wanted silence," Tessa snarks. He shoots her a disapproving look and both she and Dean issue out a "yes sir," before falling into the uncomfortable quiet yet again.

When they finally do reach the cemetery the sun is almost completely absent from the sky, leaving only a twinge of color resting on the horizon. They walk the quarter mile to the designated meeting spot in utter silence just as John had requested, making it even easier for them to make out the familiar laughing voices of the two men waiting for them. "What took you guys so long?" Sam asks as he sees his family approach. When his eyes land on his father though, his smile disappears. John is still scowling and it barely takes Sam a beat to put two and two together. Any time they'd been on an important job, any time there was a lot of tension in the air, his family always fell into the same dysfunctional pattern. The kids, being restless and agitated, would pick fights with each other. Dad, also being restless and agitated, would lose his temper with them. And in the end everyone would be hurt, angry, and disappointed.

He smiles to himself and shakes his head, internally breathing a sigh of relief that he had been spared the hour-long journey with his crazy family. "Well, anyway," he says, a lilt to his voice, "we're all set up here."

The spot chosen was deep within the graveyard, just next to a giant mausoleum, that of the Fischer Family who had tended the cemetery for the last hundred and fifty years or so. Only a few headstones pocked the grassy area surrounding the dark stone building, and about a third of a mile down the cement pathway a small forest loomed. Tessa and Ben had decided on this spot because it was where the first residents had been laid to rest. That and because it was fairly open, yet still had enough cover from the mausoleum, as well as the few large trees, so that if anyone should happen upon them, they could easily hide.

To one side of the mausoleum Sam and Ben had already set up a pentagram and a protective circle, which Ben was sitting in the middle of, an old tattered book laying open in his lap. "What's he doing?" Dean asks, pointing to Ben.

"Getting ready," Sam answers as he leans down and picks up what looks to be an ancient clay pot. He hands it to Tessa and smiles at her. "So at some point you are going to tell me who you know that can find you this stuff, right?"

She takes the pot and looks it over, talking as she does so. "Sammy, a lady never kisses and tells."

"I heard that," Ben says, his body still bent over the book. Dean rolls his eyes and groans.

"So what exactly is it anyway?" Sam asks of the artifact.

John reaches over and gently lifts it from her hands, turns it over in his. "It's an incantation bowl," he says, his face splitting into a smile. "Where did you get this?"

"One of Caleb's friends worked on a dig a couple of years back and found it. It was sold into a private collection, don't know whose, and Caleb worked some kind of deal for it."

"Remind me to thank him."

"Thank him? Dad, as it is you owe him your first five grandchildren and about 11,877 favors." John laughs as Tessa takes the jar and sets it down next to Ben inside the circle. She whispers something to him and he nods solemnly. "Okay," she says, popping out of the salt circle. "We're ready."


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

_Author's Note: Okay, I lied, this isn't the last chapter...next one will be. I figured it would be way too long to put it all in one, so I went ahead and split it up. Hope you like! _

The four Winchesters wait anxiously for something to happen as they stand on guard, their backs to the stone wall of the mausoleum. Sam checks his pistol for about the sixth time, spinning the chamber and straining to peer in at the bullets that clog its holes. Dean shoots him a nasty look and he quickly pops the chamber back in place and shoves the gun into the back of his waistband. Tessa leans against the wall, watching Ben from the corner of her eye as his mouth moves softly, inaudible words spilling out.

"So does he do this slipping into a trance, talking with demons thing when you guys are just sitting around the house, or does he save it for special occasions?" Dean quietly asks his sister.

Without even looking his way she responds, "Wouldn't know, we've never actually just sat around anywhere."

"He said he's only starting to figure this whole thing out," Sam says, his fingers inadvertently brushing over the butt of the gun yet again. He looks up at Dean. "He said he doesn't even know for sure if he's able to contact the Shedim. He's only ever been able to communicate with the lesser demons, and even then it's only when they want."

"Great," Dean mutters.

"He can do it," Tessa says before turning to face her brothers. "He _will_ do it."

"How do you know?"

"Because he knows what'll happen if he doesn't. And he won't let that happen."

Dean lets out a heavy sigh and scuffs his shoe along the grass, working it away until there's a tiny patch of nothing but dirt. He looks down at his jacket lying in a heap on the ground by a headstone reading _April Whitting, Beloved Daughter, May, 1901 – September, 1902._ It's hot, so hot that he's thinking about taking off the button down he's wearing on top of his T-shirt. Earlier in the day it had been in the 40's, 50's maybe, and he can't imagine it being normal that the temperature has risen so high so fast. He looks back at his jacket and wonders if little April is at peace in Heaven, or somewhere else, crying out for her parents amid this stifling heat.

A strong wind begins to blow and pushes them all up against the wall, their clothes and hair flapping about viscously. But it is still hot and if anything the wind makes it harder to breathe, pressing fiery air into their bodies and down into their lungs. "Storm's coming," Dean says, barley audible over the gusts.

"No," says his father. "No, this is something else."

They all look over at Ben and see the salt that lines the circle around him gently lifting and whipping about. The air moves cyclone like around him, twisting his hair and clothes. But he remains still but for his lips, which now seem to be moving even more. "I told you he could do it," she says with a smile as they all continue to watch.

"It's them?" Sam asks, a hint of fear in his voice.

"The Shedim," she says quietly. "Made of fire and air, they follow the dead."

"But," he starts, before being shushed by his father.

"Just wait," Tessa says.

They stand quietly in place for another minute or so as the hot wind whips around them. Then, all at once, it stops, leaving only a slight warm breeze that tickles the backs of their necks. They all turn to Ben but see that he is in the same position with the same look of concentration on his face. His lips are parted, but he is not moving them as he was a moment ago. From the other side of the mausoleum they can hear the rustling of the grass as someone moves toward them.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," the blond says as she moves in on the group. "You're having a party, and I wasn't invited."

"Meg," Sam says absently. Even with the few candles lit around Ben's circle, the graveyard is nearly pitch black. But he can still see the knot on the side of her head and the swollen lip that her fingertip absently touches every few seconds.

"Tessa," she says, after flashing Sam a quick smile, "I thought we had an understanding."

"What kind of understanding?" Dean interjects. "You kick my ass, I kick yours, Daddy gets mad and – " He feels a hand on his chest and sees that is Tessa's. She's trying to quiet him, and as much as he doesn't want her stepping up to protect _him_, he does what she wants, acknowledging that this time she might be the one who knows what's best.

She steps forward so that her face is no more than a few inches away from Meg's and she stands resolutely, her lips pressed shut as Meg's curl into a sadistic smile. "Don't tempt me," the blond says.

"You're not here to kill me?" she asks mockingly, sarcasm dripping from her mouth.

"Not _only_ you."

"Where's your _father_?" John steps up to ask. He takes Tessa by the arm and pulls her back. She hesitantly complies, moving around to the back of her father, her eyes never leaving Meg's.

"He's around," she says. "You must be John. I've heard so much about you."

"Where's you father?" he repeats.

She doesn't answer, only laughs a bit as she backs up toward the sidewalk. By now even the subtle breeze has stopped and the air lays heavy all around them. Despite its thickness though a delicate _clip-clop, clip-clop_ can be heard, footsteps on cement. John moves forward and strains to look through the night sky. He knows who it is long before the figure comes into focus.

Behind him Tessa leans over to Dean and whispers something into his ear. He shoots her an odd look but nods when he sees the seriousness of her expression.

The figure comes closer, making his way up the path, walking slowly, taking his time. He sidles up to Meg, who still has a mischievous grin on her face, and pulls her close to him. "Father," she says to the man, "look who I found." He smiles at her and carelessly pats her head. Then he takes a knife from the inside of his suit jacket and slits her throat. Her eyes widen in shock as she slowly falls to ground, gurgles being emitted from her throat in lieu of screams.

"John," he says cordially, putting the blade back into his interior pocket and reaching out to shake John's hand. "How've you been?"

"Great," he says with faux enthusiasm. His fist connects with Baz' jaw before he even realizes how much he wants to hit him.

"That hurt, John," he says as his hand gingerly caresses his face. "And after all I've done for you."

"You tried to kill my daughter," he spits angrily, stepping back all the same.

"Did I?" He looks to Tessa who has positioned herself between the others and Ben. He then rather dramatically cranes his neck to peer around her and into the protective circle. "Who's that?"

"No one," she says shortly.

"And what is No One doing back there?"

"Nothing."

He lets out a hearty laugh and stops only when John's fist makes contact with his face yet again. As before, the punch catches both men off guard. Baz spits blood on the grass and turns with anger in his eyes. "Stop that!"

"I trusted you," John says through clenched teeth.

"Don't be naïve. You haven't trusted anyone in years, least of all me." He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at the remaining blood on his lip and chin. "Besides, I did you a favor, well, several in fact. I told you where she was."

"Which you only knew because you were following her so you could kill her."

"John, I don't want to kill her. _Him_," he says indicating Sam, "I want to kill." He winks at Sam and smiles a sinister smile before looking back at John. "But I have no reason to hurt Tessa, not now anyway." He moves past the others and towards her, merely brushing off Dean's hand as he grasps his shoulder to stop him. When he reaches her he takes her hand in his and brings it to his mouth, kisses her knuckles softly. She cringes.

"What?" John asks confused.

"Well, with Meg gone, I'm going to need a new child. One who will help me when I need it. One strong enough and smart enough to do what needs to be done."

"Like kill my own brother?" she asks quietly, disgust permeating her words.

"He's not your brother anymore. They're not your family, _I_ am," he says softly, looking directly into her eyes. Then, as if he could feel the man's questioning gaze on him, he turns to John to explain. "You knew there would be consequences," he says simply.

Tessa looks at father in horror. This is the one thing she had hoped he would never find out, the thing she thought would be dealt with by simply doing away with Baz. But no one can change the past, and no one can keep people from regretting it. She meets her father's eyes and watches as realization slowly floods over him, leaving pain in its wake. "It doesn't matter," she says, holding his gaze. "It doesn't matter what kind of deal you made. I know which side I'm on."

"It wasn't a deal, Tessa. You know that," Baz says as he throws his arm over her shoulders. "It was a sacrifice."

"I never," John starts, but finds himself unable to go on.

"Oh, really, John, you know about this _stuff_. You know it's not all fire and fun. You don't have to cut someone's throat or burn them alive to sacrifice them."

"I didn't know."

"Well, how you could not? I mean, your wife is dead and even she knew."

John closes his eyes tightly and draws in a deep breath. Of course, he thinks. Of course she knew. That's why she was calling out to Tessa all those years ago, trying to lure her to death. It wasn't because she didn't love her; it was because she did. And she didn't want her child to suffer like Meg did, to be turned into an abused and used evil pawn. Even death would be better than that.

Tessa shrugs out from under Baz' arm and tries to move away from him, but he grabs her wrist and grips hard. John's eyes fly open and he stares menacingly at Baz before saying simply, "Let go of my daughter." Both men look at each other, neither move.

Sam reaches around behind him for his gun but stops when he feels Dean's hand come to rest on his. He gives his brother an incredulous glance but sees, when he looks over at him, that he is signaling him with his eyes to look to his right. He does and notices that Ben, while still sitting in the same position, is out of his trance and looking right at him. Sam mouths the word _now_. And Ben nods his head, his hair falling away from his face as the returning wind blows it back.

Sam looks back at his sister as she tries to pull away from Baz' grip. He looks at her only for a second before she turns to him and winks. He reaches back again, this time for the little book he stashed in his back pocket. He grabs it and opens it to the marked page and begins reading aloud in Latin. The wind starts to pick up again, whistling as it shoots in and out of the small spaces between the headstones.

Baz tears his eyes away from John when he feels the hot air begin to swirl around him. His mouth falls open as though he is about to speak, but nothing comes out. Sam reads louder, moving closer to him as he does so. Tessa quickly twists out his grasp and grips his arm with her other hand, forcing it behind his back. Ben jumps up and grabs his other arm, and the two work to hold him steady despite his struggling.

Sam moves directly in front of him and glances up every so often from the book. He sees the fear, the utter terror, in Baz' eyes. But he doesn't care. This may not be the thing that killed his mother, or Jessica even. But it is one of them, one who played an awfully big part in almost every horrific thing that had ever happened in his life. And he wants him to die, horribly, painfully.

This was the plan they had discussed. The Shedim couldn't get to him as long as he was encased in a human body, at least not easily. And they certainly couldn't cause him the same kind of pain and suffering as if he were in his natural form. So they had to exorcise him and then let his brothers and sisters go to town, ripping him limb from preverbal limb. Of course before just offering him up they would ask for something in return, that was Ben's job. He was supposed to offer them Baz in exchange for leaving all of the Winchesters alone, from here on out. They thought it might be a tough sell. After all they are a family that specializes in getting rid of their evil kind. But ultimately they figured that their hatred for their traitorous sibling would far outshine that which they had for some measly human supernatural hunters. And judging from the way they were all now seemingly circling Baz like sharks waiting to strike, he guesses they must have been right.

Sam continues to recite the ritual as both Dean and their father rush up to help hold onto the flailing man. Sweat pours from each of them as the temperature seems to rise even more, the wind whipping with increasing violence. Dean's hand slips briefly and he catches a foot in the face, stumbles back for a moment before lurching forward again to reclaim his grip. Sam, now with the repeating lines unconsciously rolling off his tongue in quick succession, stares into Baz' frightened eyes, tunes out his screams and hateful curses. Water falls into his eyes and he tries to blink it all out, but more flows in. It's not just sweat, it's begun to rain.

The thick droplets beat down on them and seem to sizzle on their skin. Dean looks up, the violent wind forcing the rain into his eyes, and he sees how dark and angry the sky has become. A large flash of lightening cuts a jagged arc through the clouds and hits a tree somewhere deep in the woods just beyond. The crack of split lumber is followed by a guttural scream from Baz. Loud thunder rolls over the awful sound leaving only the pitter-patter of rain in its wake.

The form beneath them goes still, his eyes closing, breathing steadying to a slower pace, like that of a man deep in sleep. And the wind swirls around them all once more before lifting higher into the sky as if being called away by the clouds. Its final whistle is so high-pitched that they all cringe and struggle to cover their ears.

And then it's gone. The wind, the intense heat, the strange _feeling_ that was present just moments ago, is all gone. The four who were holding Baz down slowly release their grips, one by one. Sam closes his tiny book and places it back into his pocket, then leans over to try and help the others up.

"Is that it?" Ben asks, breaking the silence. They all look at each other, seeing if one of them might hold the answer. In the end the only answer they find comes in the form of a collective shrug of shoulders. _I guess so_, it seems to say.

Sam shoves his hands in his pockets as he turns in search of his jacket. The rain continues to fall, but now it feels icy on their skin and the temperature seems to have dropped by about twenty degrees. Tessa shivers and hugs her arms to her chest. Dean leans down and picks up his jacket, goes to throw it over her shoulders, but is beaten to it as Ben steps up and helps her slip into his. He cringes a bit as he watches Ben lean into her, throw his long arms around her shoulders and hold tight. The embrace looks like something they've made fairly commonplace. They're comfortable in each other's arms, and upon realizing this Dean tenses up even more.

They all seem a bit lost, looking around as though searching for something to do. _This_ part of the job is done, but there's a whole other one that has yet to even begin. Tessa looks up into the sky, sees the dark clouds that have only recently rolled in, and thinks to herself that it can't be long now. The candles have all been put out, either by the rain or the demonic wind, so while she can make out the forms of her family members, she is unable to see their expressions.

"What now?" Sam asks cautiously. But no one seems to hear him. They all look past him just over his shoulder, towards the woods. Sam turns slowly and sees a figure approach. Even in the near pitch black he can make out that it is a woman.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: Okay, so I was reading over all of this the other day and, wow, is this one loooong story. I realize that a lot of stuff was thrown in here and I hope I covered pretty much everything, explained everything. I'm kind of thinking about doing a sequel, but I don't know. If I do it will probably be something a bit less intense. I for one enjoyed writing a lot of the sibling interaction and would love do more of that, but throw in some more lighthearted stuff. Anywhoo, you just let me know. So, alas, this is it, I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

* * *

March, 1983 

"_No," he says quickly as he pulls away from her embrace. "No, I can't."_

_She moves her thin fingers along the fabric of his shirt, further smears the bit of grease that landed on his collar not even an hour ago. "You can," she says softly, slowly fiddling with his buttons. She inhales long and deep, breathing in his smell of musky sweat and oil. Her eyes turn up, glaring at him from beneath those pale lids and she says huskily, "You will."_

_Again her lips press into his and he is taken aback. He is drowning, falling, dying. Her slight frame is now pushed up against him so tightly that it almost feels as though she is melting into him. Her hand soothingly massages the back of his neck, all the while holding in him in place, at times pulling him even closer to her so that she can devour him more. He closes his eyes and begins to give in._

_It happens. Men have affairs. All the time. They cheat, sleep with others…no, fuck others. But they always go home to their wives. It doesn't mean they don't love their wives. _This_ doesn't mean he doesn't love his wife. Mary. _Mary.

_His eyes shoot open and he chokes and gags, the taste of her in his mouth suddenly shifting from sweet to bitter. He releases her lips and tries to pull away, has to peel her hand from the back of his neck to do so. "John," she says, mock confusion and hurt ringing forth. Her swollen lips begin to pout like a pitiful child threatening tears and tantrums if not given what is desired._

"_No," he says again, pushing her away. "No!"_

_Her pout disappears and is replaced by a snarl. She rolls her eyes and spits angrily at him, the liquid sizzling and sputtering on the concrete floor like spattered hot oil. He sees her now for the first time. She is not Sarah, the petite 20 something who took over the books of the garage several months before. She is not that sweet and innocent girl who commiserated with him over money troubles and debated with him whether or not the '67 Shelby GT was really the finest example of a Mustang to date. She was someone else. She was _something_ else._

_They lock eyes for one bewildering moment before she turns and heads for the door, leaving just as she had come, giggling like a little schoolgirl. At the doorway, just before ducking out and leaving never to return, she throws over her shoulder in a sing song voice, "If you really loved her, you would have said yes."_

Now

"Sarah," he says absently, relating the face to the name before making the necessary connection. When he speaks all eyes turn on him. His children stare, watch his face slowly transition in the dark, going from simply tired to expectant, to moderately surprised, then on to enraged. They glance back at the strange woman, who is now close enough to inspect, their heads all moving in unison towards her, then back to their father. Now the look on his face is one of reticence, one of relief. This is what he has been waiting for, looking for, for over twenty years.

He moves slowly towards her but stops suddenly when she throws up her hand. He is not even a foot away from her now, close enough to smell her eerie smoky scent, like a campfire that's been doused with acrid water. If he reached out he may just be able to touch her, another step and he could lunge swiftly, grip her throat, strangle the life out of her. If there were even any _life_ in her to begin with. But he can't reach out, and he can't move forward. He is stuck in place, cemented to the ground without the ability, without, it seems, even the desire to move.

She laughs. "Are these your children, John?" she asks, a smile still playing on her lips. She sweeps around to face them. "Dean. Sam?" The two men look at her blankly. Inside they fume, but on the surface they seem unfazed, uncaring even that this _woman_, the thing that killed their mother, is standing in front of them. Speaking to them. Touching them. Her hand lightly glides over Sam's face, her fingers pinching a loose tendril of hair moving to sweep it behind his ear. "You grew up to be so handsome."

"And to think, you were going to kill him before he had the chance." Sarah cranes her neck to look at the young woman standing beside her brothers. Unlike them, she is far from serene, her eyes burning with rage, the skin of her cheeks glowing in red so bright and deep it can almost be seen even in the dark. She scowls at the murderous interloper.

"And you," she says, letting her hand fall away from Sam's face. "Shouldn't you be…elsewhere?" Tessa merely shifts her weight from one foot to the other, standing tall and strong on her ground. Sarah moves toward her and reaches out, her hand grasping onto Ben's. Whereas a moment ago that hand had been gripping her shoulder tightly, his arm wrapped protectively around her, now it fell loosely down by Tessa's side. Guided by the demon, he steps carefully around her and allows himself to be pulled nearer to Sarah. "You see how simple it is?" she says to Tess as she brings Ben's hand to her lips, kisses tenderly.

"Right," she says with an indignant snort. "Because controlling a man is _so_ difficult." In a flash she grabs his wrist and wrenches his hand away from Sarah, shoves him back behind her where he stumbles briefly before falling in line along side her catatonic brothers. "You killed my mother," Tessa hisses, her hands clenched in tight fists. She is doing everything in her power to control herself, to keep from tearing this woman apart, a thing she knows would likely get her killed. Frustration flows through her and tears begin to collect in her eyes. She bites down on her bottom lip and tries to blink them away, hoping that they go unnoticed despite the fact that her eyes remain locked with this _woman_'s. What did her father call her? Sarah? "Lilith," she says slowly, almost inaudible.

"I don't go by that name. Not now, not in _this _form. That name is far too great to belong to someone who looks like this." She gestures down her body, the same young, taught one that had come so close to seducing John decades ago. "It's so…_human_," she says with obvious disgust. "In fact, I don't think I like you even saying it. It sounds so terribly urbane coming from those fleshy lips."

Tessa tries to speak, to say something witty or insulting, or entirely meaningless even. But no sound comes from her parted mouth. By now she can feel the warm tears running down her face and she reaches up to wipe them away, furrowing her brow in distaste as she does so. Weak, she thinks, so weak, to cry like little girl.

"I was thinking just that," the woman in front of her says, a sadistic twinkle in her eye. Fury penetrates Tess' psyche. Fucking demon, reading minds now too? She looks over at her brothers and Ben, all three stand motionless still, their confused gazes directed at Sarah. She can see in their eyes that they are fighting, they know something is wrong. Looking at them she is fully aware that they have every intention of coming out of their stupor, if only they could figure out how. But there are very few men who can resist Lilith, very few who can maintain control of themselves when her spell is placed on them.

So she is alone, just as she knew she would be. Just as she suspected she _should_ be.

"What's the matter," Sarah asks her with mock concern as she sees fresh hot tears roll from the girl's eyes. "Cat got your tongue?"

She shakes her head violently. No, she thinks, no, you can't control me that easily. But despite being able to conjure them, she still can not make the words come out. Sarah reaches out and touches her face, wipes away a tear with the pad of her thumb and quickly places it in her mouth, suckles the sweet, salty fluid of fear. The taste of tears, the smell of blood, the cries of infants ready to be devoured…these are the things she longs for when not in human form. They, like the delightful twinge that runs up her spine after finagling a man from his wife's embrace, are the things that almost make the putrid human form worthwhile. Yet they are the things that real people never seem to enjoy.

"So much you don't know," she says, smiling at Tessa. "All that you've read, about me and mine, all that you've studied and still there is _so_ much that you don't know. You think just because you are a woman you're immune to my influence? Oh, dear," she says as her thumb returns to stroke her wet cheek once more, "you're not. You're nothing, remember? No one." She leans in, wraps her arm around the girl's trembling frame and pulls her close, whispering in her ear. "We're so much alike, Tessa, you and me. Both spurned and tossed aside. I fled from Paradise because I didn't belong. But I don't belong anywhere. And neither do you." She releases her hold and moves back, speaks in a normal tone again. "Both of us, you see, we're only here because certain men need us to be. But without them we're nothing. You and I are nothing."

"You're half right," John says from behind as he lunges at her. She had thought he, like the others, was placated, still and awaiting an invitation to move. She had thought he had been under her thumb, as all men at one time or another are. She had thought she was safe, in control. But she was wrong.

Before even being able to whip completely around, her legs go numb and collapse out from under her. She reaches her fingers around to her back, feels the gaping, oozing hole. Lying on the muddy ground she looks up at the man standing above her, sees the dagger glinting in his hand, her blood dripping from its tip. She attempts to rollover, reach out, get to her feet once more, but finds herself incapable. He must have severed her spinal cord. Stupid, useless human body, felled by something so small.

He looks up quickly, across the two feet or so that separate them, and penetrates his daughter's stare. "Tessa," he says, but she does not respond, her eyes transfixed on the woman writhing at her feet. "Tessa!" he says again, louder, kicking Sarah hard in the side as she reaches for his daughter's ankle. This time she does respond, though meekly. She looks up at her father through tear stained eyes, the movement long and exaggerated. He speaks slowly, clearly. "Now. Go get it now."

Sarah rolls her eyes. Get what? Do they really think that there is anything that could stop her? She clenches her lids shut and begins to chant softly, her essence leaving the pathetic human shell in quick wisps and gasps as she does so. The wind begins to blow and twist around her, readying itself to carry her away, on to the next poor soul in need of torture.

There is hardly any feeling left in her body when John lifts her head up by the hair. Vaguely she can feel a cold sting across her throat, but the touch is so fleeting, so unimportant, that she pays it no heed, her true self never looking down on the proceedings as it is whisked up into the air.

But she does not fully ascend.

Beneath her winding wind John kneels in the mud, holding Sarah's head over an ancient looking urn, the blood seeping from her gaping neck wound quickly flowing and dripping into the container. Tessa sits beside it, her eyes closed, head bowed, lips moving swiftly with only inaudible words spilling out.

It's not an urn, she realizes as the pull increases. It's not, but…it can't be. How could she have been so blind, so casual and confident? Men were the ones who let their egos cause their downfall. Not her. She was better than that.

Tessa continues reciting the incantation as Sarah's blood fills the bowl and begins to trickle down the side. Her voice grows louder, but the words are still foreign, even to her. The rough translation she knew by heart, but this was a language so old that few remained who could utter it plausibly. Yet her attempt was excellent, and further more, it was _enough_. Enough for the recitation to work, pulling Lilith closer and closer with each word. And finally, sealing her in with the final, "Amen, amen, Selah."

The wind ceases almost immediately and John quickly flings the clay top on the overflowing bowl, letting Sarah's limp body lay heavily across him. He looks to his daughter then up at his sons, both of whom, along with Ben, stare plainly down, broken from their stupor yet unaware of how to proceed. "It's a Persian incantation bowl," he says as he slides the body off of him and struggles to rise, his legs leaden and heavy. Dean moves to help him up, but John brushes him off; he is weak not inept. "It can trap her, her…essence. It did trap her."

Sam steps forward cautiously and bends down to look at the pot. His mouth hangs open as though readying itself to speak, but no words come out. He looks back up at his father, his face blurring through the tears just now collecting in his eyes. His mother's killer, found, contained. "Shit," he hears Dean say and glances down to the ground next to him, where his brother's eyes are widely focused. Sam falls back and skitters away a few paces as the body lying beside him slowly disintegrates into dirt. No, not dirt, ash. He wrinkles his nose, the scent of sulfur permeating the air, and quickly rises hoping to escape it.

"Now what?" Ben asks quietly. He stands away from the group, just behind the brothers, and looks at them now expecting an answer from them collectively.

"Now," John says as he bends down and sweeps up the bloody bowl, "we burn the bitch."

They didn't know for sure if it would work. Really it was no more than a guess, an educated one, but a guess none the less. Fight fire with fire. Nowhere could they find anything definitive regarding the destruction of Lilith. She was one whom, in the past, people only managed to avoid, perhaps exorcise, or bind. But no one could kill her. No one had tried. Until now.

When they threw the incantation bowl into the fire they all expected…something. Even as the clay slowly melted, the blood burning and congealing to the mud and cinders, they waited patiently, theirs eyes wide, ears perked for any sight or sound that might confirm their hopes. That she was dead. But there was nothing, no deafening scream, no flash of bright light or gust or wind or rolling tuft of choking smoke. Nothing. So all they had to lay their hopes on was the overriding optimism they all in some way possessed, that good would triumph over evil.

And since they could receive no confirmation one way or the other, not from Sam with his _feelings_ or Ben with his ability to communicate with _others_, or even the ever sensitive Missouri Mosely, they had not choice but to simply move on and hope for the best.

"You don't have to go, you know," he says as she shoves a crumpled up T-shirt in her duffel. Sitting on the bed with his leg twitching nervously beneath him, Dean can do nothing but watch as his sister moves frantically around, trying to pack up all that she can.

"I don't even know how I got all of this crap here to begin with," she says quickly, surveying the room with its piles of books and papers. All of them but John returned to the hotel in Roseville to gather everything worth anything. The three siblings bid their father farewell, though they had been assured it wouldn't be for long. He had some things to take care of, some people he needed to see, jobs left to finish. Work was still work, the evil in the world didn't stop creating havoc just because they wanted it to, just because they needed a break. There was no time for a vacation. "You want any of these?" she asks, spinning wildly on her heel and tossing a few books towards the bed.

The corner of his mouth rises in a half-hearted smile and he snorts out a laugh. "Your books? I figured you'd want to be buried with them."

"I trust you to keep them safe until my funeral."

"Right."

She stops short and turns around to look at him, a stack of papers lingering in her hand over the open box. "You really think he'll go?" she asks solemnly.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "He says he is. He wants to."

"Man," she says rising. The mattress sags next to Dean as she takes a seat. "A lawyer? I just don't get it."

"I know," he says shaking his head back and forth.

"I mean, who'd want to give up all this?" She sweeps her arm over the room in a dramatic gesture and Dean can't help but laugh when surveying the disaster in front of them, around them. Who would want to leave a life of cheap hotel rooms stuffed to the brim with books about witchcraft and demonology, newspaper clippings relating to various hauntings, bloody towels left on the floor following demonic brawls, and of course empty coffee cups and candy bar wrappers galore? Sam would.

"He's staying for a while still though, right? Until the next term starts?"

"That's what he said."

"That's good."

"Yeah," he says with a sigh, "that's good."

"You know," she says after an all too long moment of uncomfortable silence, "I won't be gone forever. I mean…I have some things I have to…work out." He looks up at her sadly. "But…"

"You got to work these things out with _Ben_?" he asks, a ring of playful sarcasm to his voice.

She laughs. "He's giving me a ride."

"Yeah, I'll bet." She slaps him upside the head as she rises and tosses a stray shirt into her bag beside him. "Ow," he says through a chuckle.

She tries not to laugh and attempts even to hide her smile, turning her back to him while saying, "You're such a jerk."

"Yeah, well," he lets out simply. Then, grabbing a hold of her wrist and twisting her around to face him again he says, "You're still with me then? You'll come back?"

She glances at him briefly, sees the pleading his eyes. "There'll always something to hunt, right?" Throwing the large duffel over her shoulder she ducks from his stare. None of them were ever good at good byes. "You'd get killed out there without _someone_ watching your back," she says heading for the door.

He gets up quickly and hoists the box of books and papers. "Hell I would," he says indignantly. "I'd do just fine on my own."

"Uh huh, okay."

"I would."

"Yup."

"Would too."

"Sure thing."

"I can handle anything," he says, balancing the box awkwardly on his leg while swinging the door shut behind them.

"Yeah," she says, watching him struggle. "I'll bet."


End file.
